


Invisitable

by salanaland



Series: Visitorverse [13]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slice of Life, lighthearted shenanigans, occasional smut, political situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 82
Words: 53,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Homecoming, there's a bunch of famous Assassins and Templars running around the 21st century, getting up to old tricks and new. Plus, there's another generation of visitors, some of whom, confusingly, are in earlier times. But what isn't confusing about the visitorverse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's a bright, hot morning and Haytham is enjoying a cup of tea before Desmond can wake up and comment on him drinking hot tea in the summer (or near enough). Haytham can't stop it, though, the little smile that sneaks onto his face every morning when Desmond says, "You're _weird_ , Dad."

Today, though, Desmond and Elena emerge from their room with an expectant air. They look at each other, then at Haytham. "Know what day today is?" Desmond asks.

"Sunday," Haytham tells him. He's got some idea, of course, from his daily perusal of the colorful newspapers of this time, but he wants Desmond to have the fun of telling him. Or Elena, which will be even better.

"It's Daddy Day!" Elena squeals, holding up a string of brightly colored tubes, which she offers to Haytham. Desmond is already wearing a similar necklace, so Haytham pulls the string over his head. Elena claps.

"I, uh, here's a card, dad," Desmond says bashfully, handing over an envelope. It contains a card with a bad pun on the front, and on the inside Desmond's written:

_I never had a reason to celebrate Father's Day before this year. Love you, dad._

Desmond is scuffing his toes on the linoleum as Haytham reads, and looks up at him with an expression of fragile hope.

"Well," says Haytham, "what is the appropriate response of similar sentiment?" The newspapers have taught him that drills and ties are accepted and expected presents; they haven't said what the recipient of such a gift--or, even better, a heartfelt message--is meant to do.

"Uh," Desmond scuffs his feet some more. "A, uh, hug." He lurches towards Haytham and they hug awkwardly, still not used to it.

Elena starts jumping up and down, clamoring for hugs, and once she's gotten her fill from both dad and grandpa, she clings to Haytham's knee, chattering away about why she made him a pink and purple necklace (apparently because it looks nice with his blue shirt).

Desmond just keeps grinning, watching Haytham and Elena. Haytham still has no idea what he's doing as far as being a grandfather, but obviously it's enough for Elena.

"And then we're gonna play dolls, right, grandpa?"

Haytham nods and is about to speak, when Shay comes out of his and Aveline's room, and Elena runs back to her room, only to emerge with two more macaroni necklaces, which she gives to Shay. "Rory and Jeanne say Happy Daddy Day," she reports, then goes back to sit in Haytham's lap, only to hop up again as Altaïr appears ("Darim didn't know there was a whole day for dads until _I_ told him!") This process is repeated all morning with Connor ("Matty misses you,") Ezio (“Cello says flower necklaces are for girls, macaroni's much better,") and finally, near noon, Edward ("Jenny is really old, too old to make macaroni necklaces, but she did anyway. And so did Jacob and she's old too!")

Haytham looks with satisfaction at his necklace, the card, and the knife Connor gave him as a present. It's got all sorts of attachments, in case Haytham is ever menaced by a raging wine bottle, philips-head screw, nose hair, or ingrown toenail. Plus, it has a cross on the side, even if it's not red, and that's a nice touch.

He had to run out to the liquor store to get a present for Edward, but luckily he picked an amusing brand of rum. "How come he gets his own rum and I don't? Captain Morgan wasn't more ferocious than me!" Edward gripes.

Finally, everyone is sitting around the table, and Aveline speaks up. "There's someone here who hasn't given a present to his or her father." She hands Shay the box she had in her lap with a smile.

Everyone stares, and Edward gets it first. "Shay, you didn't!"

"Didn't what?" Shay asks blankly as Aveline strokes his cheek and laughs.

"Look at the tag," she tells her husband, and he stares at it.

"'To Papa, from Baby Cormac,'" Ezio reads over Shay's shoulder.

"A baby?" Elena asks, clapping her hands. "A real baby?"

Aveline nods, her eyes still on Shay as he begins to grin. "A real baby."

"Well, it was inevitable," Haytham says, reaching over to clap Shay on the back. And there's suddenly a hubbub of congratulations. Shay opens the present--it's a tie--and Desmond attempts to teach him how to tie it, but it ends up with the Templar cross being covered by the skinny end. And now they're all laughing, and Elena's giggling, and everyone but Aveline has a macaroni necklace, and Haytham decides this might be one of the best days he's ever had.


	2. Jenny Comes Home

Jenny keeps it a secret, even from her visitors. It’s hard, but mostly she manages by not being at home, and hiring lots of burly men to take care of all the heavy lifting.

Money doesn't fix _everything,_ but Jenny's learned, in her old age, that many problems can be solved with a hefty infusion of currency.

On the ship, it’s harder, mostly because Jenny hasn't gone anywhere by sea since she came back, having parted ways with her brother in the wake of his friend Holden's suicide. 

Haytham, she knew, took ship for the Colonies, and she, for England, to the Kenway mansion, rebuilt by her now-deceased stepmother but empty for over a decade. It was still in good shape, and the servants didn't bat an eye when she arrived. Tessa knew how to fix things with money.

Not the important things, of course, like her estranged son and enslaved stepdaughter.

Such ruminations fill Jenny's days aboard the ship, and the only visitor she has is an elderly Rory, too busy with his seasickness and his broken arm to ask nosy questions. Jenny only visits once, to a toddler Elena, who is more than happy to let Jenny take over and ask Connor a bunch of questions about how to get to his Homestead.

Connor knows perfectly well what she's after, and when he tells her, "You are very welcome, Aunt Jenny," she realizes that this is a phrase he's used to saying, and it gives her hope.

Hope is a foreign feeling, a bit like heartburn mixed with fidgeting.

When she arrives at the manor itself, she nearly doesn't knock, almost turns away, but she's Jennifer Scott and she's outlived many scary things and her nephew is not one of them.

So she knocks, and he answers politely, and of course he doesn't recognize her until he asks her name. "Jennifer Scott," she tells him, "but you may call me Aunt Jenny." The shock on his face is priceless, but the look of guilt (why guilt? she wonders) heartbreaking.

And then he welcomes her in, and for the first time since the night her father was killed, Jenny comes home.


	3. Chapter 3

The winds howled, the rain pelted him, his blood-slicked hands kept sliding off the wheel, and the last thing Adéwalé needed was to have his old captain appear before him.

"Foul weather, isn't it?" Edward asked cheerfully, looking around at the storm. "Long time-- _very_ long time no see."

Adéwalé shook his head, frustrated. However and whyever Edward Kenway had appeared on his ship, he was simply infuriating in his abuse of proper speech.

"What are you doing on my ship, Captain Kenway?" Adéwalé shouted over the roar of the storm. His crew stared at him.

"It's funny you should ask that, Adé," Edward told him, conversationally. "Remember how I was always talking to thin air?"

"You're simply a madman," Adéwalé informed him, as a wave crashed over the deck. A man screamed, his arm bent at an impossible angle. "And it appears I am as well."

"Not mad," his hallucination--what else could he be?--informed him. "Just visiting."

"So my madness is temporary, it itself tells me. When shall I return to the world of the sane? You see, Edward, I have work to do in the world. Important work, good work, not simply the pursuit of material wealth." Adéwalé bit the words out. How many times had he rehearsed them late at night in his narrow bunk in the _Victoire_? True, he hadn't expected to be addressing them to a spectre conjured from his overtaxed mind, but rather Edward himself.

His imaginary Edward gaped at him. "No, you've got it all wrong, mate. It's really me, Edward, from the future. Far in the future, actually. It's a long story...which you obviously don't have time for."

"The future, Edward? What kind of fool does my own madness take me for?" Adéwalé snapped, rolling his eyes. "You looked older than this at the Observatory. And that was fifteen years ago." The mainmast cracked and gave way; it was time to give up the _Victoire_. "Abandon ship!"

"You'd better get going," the false Edward warned him as the crew took to their small, sturdy rowboats. "You _have_ to live."

"If I go down with my ship, Captain Kenway, at least I know I've made the world better in my lifetime." He didn't know why he was justifying himself to a hallucination.

"Damn you, you stubborn man," Edward told him, no longer smiling, as the rudder snapped and the _Victoire_ began to list to port. "You're allowed to save yourself, you know. Or how else can you do your important work?"

Adéwalé clung to the railing of his ship. "Very clever of my addled mind to use my own words against me."

The false Edward rolled his eyes. "Will you just accept that I'm here, Adé? It'll make everything a lot easier if you do. You don't want to be like Desmond, convinced he was a madman until the day he died...or, well, died and un-died."

"You're talking foolishness again, Edward," Adéwalé told him, then laughed at himself. "And I twice the fool for arguing with you."

"Just...just live, all right?" the illusory Edward practically begged, and at last Adéwalé leapt from the sinking ship, swimming in (he hoped) the direction of Saint-Domingue. It was hard to hear anything over the gale, but he was sure he caught the word " _Finally_ " in Edward's exasperated voice.

There would be time to sort out this madness later. For now, Adéwalé needed to survive and make it to land.


	4. Chapter 4

The sailor known as Jacob Kidd felt the tingle of visiting and looked up. Jenny looked beautiful, but miserable, and Jacob’s breath caught in her throat. She hated seeing her sister like this. Ever since she learned they were sisters, even though Jacob was the younger, she felt like she had to watch out for Jenny.

But first she’d been too young to cross the Atlantic and fight to protect Jenny from being taken, and then she knew she didn’t have the resources, as a lone Assassin acting on no firm evidence, to mount a rescue operation into the Middle East, for one spoiled young woman who happened to be the daughter of a murdered British Assassin. She’d tried and tried for years to get someone to help her, to no avail. Angry and frustrated, she’d taken a job on a ship to London, where her restless feet led her around the city. Jenny joined her, silent as usual; where she was being held, she wasn’t allowed to talk, and while she’d been especially loquacious on visits in her younger days to make up for it, now that she was over forty the silence had become ingrained. Jacob hated it. Her sister should be free to talk.

Trapped in her dark thoughts, Jacob simply walked, Jenny at her side, until a commotion by the opera house made them look up. A figure in blue was sneaking into a carriage, and Jenny tugged Jacob’s elbow. “That’s him!” she whispered. “It’s my brother, it’s got to be! _Our_ brother, I mean.”

Jacob gave chase, but the horses were too fast and the streets too clear, and the carriage got away from her. Despondent, she slowed down to catch her breath. “I could write him a letter,” she offered doubtfully. Writing was not her strong suit.

“Yes, do it! Please!” Jenny’s plea was heartfelt, and so Jacob bought a pen and ink and some paper, then rented a room for the night, looking longingly at the bed. She was tired and would have appreciated curling up in that narrow bunk with Jeanne, but Jenny needed her and this was something she could actually do.

It took several tries, but there it was, finally.

> _Mister Haytham Kenway,_
> 
> _You dont know me but I am a Sailor and I know something about your Sister. Try searching for her at Toppcapy_ (that was a really hard one to spell) _Palace in Turkey. Please bring her home at Once. It is very important._
> 
> _Signed  
>  J. K. _

She reread it to make sure it was legible, then addressed it to the address Jenny gave her, and posted it the next morning.

It took the letter some time to get to where Haytham had been staying; it had gotten forwarded on and around from Queen Anne’s Square. By the time it got to Jim Holden, who was receiving all of Haytham’s mail while he was in the colonies, Jacob had herself returned to those colonies, and Holden was unable to find out who had sent it. But the semi-anonymous tip bore fruit, and so he sent a letter on to Haytham, which arrived at the Green Dragon Inn in July of 1755. Charles Lee took possession of the letter and rode out into the Frontier to find his Grand Master, finding him in the company of a certain native woman, who was less than happy to discover that Haytham had lied to her about other things. His heart broken, Haytham read the letter, and was able to distract himself with the search for Jenny, which ended up being successful, though disastrous in varying degrees for him, Holden, and Reginald Birch. 

When Jenny, in her old sewing room at last, burst into tears and hugged Jacob tightly, whispering, “Thank you, thank you,” Jacob felt like she’d finally done it right, looking after her sister.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little antidote to the sadness of the previous chapter (and really, Jenny's whole life).

It bothered Rory, it would always bother him, it would never stop bothering him. Jeanne was his little sister, his visitor. He had to keep her safe--safe from the world, safe from the kind of people who'd look at her tan skin and see a piece of errant property, safe from people who'd kill her for her choices. 

Safe from Assassins. 

Safe from Rory's Brotherhood. 

He kept trying to explain this to her, to tell her what a colossal mistake she was making, but she was having none of it. He'd just thought of another way to explain it to her, his worry and his love and his fears for her, and he ran up the stairs and rounded the corner to open her bedroom door. 

“Listen, Jeanne,” he began. 

She’d been lying on the bed with an expression of transcendent joy, but opened her eyes with an immediate glare. “ _What_ , Rory?” she demanded. 

And then someone's head poked out from under the covers. “Something to say, Rory?”

It was _Jacob Kidd._

Visitor, friend, fellow Assassin. 

Rory had walked in on--his mind struggled-- _Jacob,_ of all people--making love to _Rory's little sister._

He stared.

“You see, I don’t hate _all_ Assassins,” Jeanne told him simply. “Just you.”

Rory had nothing to say, for probably the first time in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

It's hard to live with seven people--nine if you count Elena and Clay--who are all very different, but all very stubborn and outspoken.

It's even harder if one of them--still! after all these years!--worships you.

Altaïr can live with Ezio giving up the comfiest chair to him, he can live with him asking his opinion on everything, but this he draws the line at.

"I'm _bathing_ , Ezio!" Technically Altaïr is showering, but the funny glass door doesn't conceal nearly enough of his body to make him comfortable with the way Ezio is staring.

"I know."

"I thought we had settled this long ago." He distinctly remembers being old and _enjoying_ Ezio's visits, where they talked about the meaning of the Creed, how to train apprentices, and other _important_ things.

"We did, but you're just really sexy again," Ezio tells him unapologetically.

Altaïr makes a noise of frustration and turns his back on the other Assassin, trying to rinse off without feeling uncomfortable.

It's a lost cause.

The water is nice, Altaïr decides. Warm, and somehow soothing and invigorating at once. He's heard stories of the strange baths of Desmond’s time from Edward (who probably had more baths in Desmond's time than his own) and Aveline (who mostly seemed put out by the lack of Shay in the shower) but has never experienced one for himself. Until recently, of course. And he can certainly see what Aveline meant.

It would be pleasant, Altaïr decides, to share the shower with Maria. But he never will, he'll never see her again, and the thought is a shard of icy agony through his heart. It's been decades--it's been centuries--but he's never gotten over Maria's death.

He finds himself curled up in the corner of the shower, which has been, for some reason, spraying salt water on his face. The door creaks, the shower stops, and an impossibly fluffy towel is wrapped around his shoulders. He looks up, into the face of one of his oldest friends. "Maria," he says, as if that explains everything.

Ezio is looking at him with genuine concern and sympathy. "Missing her?"

Altaïr nods. "I get a second life, but it must be without her. It's... the weight of it rushed in on me."

Ezio nods. "And I must go through mine without Sofia. It's not quite fair. Aveline and Shay have each other. Haytham and Connor are used to being alone."

"As am I," Altaïr reminds him quietly.

"It's not the same, is it, though?" Ezio asks. He tugs Altaïr to his feet and hands him his bathrobe, never once looking down at his semi-nudity.

"She died in my arms." Altaïr can remember the trembling weight of her and the way she'd gone slack with her final breath. He doesn't remember much of what happened afterwards.

"And she lives in your memory." Ezio’s voice is warm and sure. "So long as you remember her, and you are the better for it, she's still changing the world. Through you."

"Thank you," Altaïr murmurs.


	7. Rory's Unwelcome Revelation

Rory H. Cormac is many things, but mostly he's an Assassin. The minute he put on his hood for the first time, he knew where he belonged. And maybe he's a bit of a mama's boy, because when he saw his mother smiling at him right before he took his first Leap of Faith, he knew he was on the right path.

He wants to fight for freedom from oppression, freedom from tyranny, freedom from slavery, and most importantly (and impossibly) freedom from Templars.

They're everywhere. In Nouvelle Orleans, in New York; everywhere he goes there's at least one Templar.

Rory is really tired of going places with his father.

But even when he's with his mother, or Uncle Connor, or the other Assassins, Rory still has his _name_ , and his name is full of Templars. It's bad enough his surname is Cormac ("Wasn't it a Templar named Cormac who wiped out the Colonial Assassins?" the others whisper when he almost can't hear them) but he could hardly avoid that, being the son of his father.

It's his middle name that Rory doesn't understand, can't stand, won't forgive. And his parents are highly unsympathetic to his plight. Even his mother.

"He was a good friend to me and your father," she tells him. "In fact, the very best of friends."

"But he was a Templar!"

Aveline affixes him with the Look. "If Assassins and Templars couldn't be friends, you'd never exist."

Rory groans. "But why'd you have to name me after Haytham Kenway of all people?"

Aveline is always firm about this. "We owe him a debt we can never repay."

"Don't offer me up as payment!" Rory snaps.

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother tells him. But she's been a Master Assassin for decades, she can ignore the whispers about her and her husband. Rory is so new his hood is still bright white, and everyone talks like he's a Templar in disguise. Or they simply mock him--Haystack is a popular nickname for him.

"Uncle Connor," he asks one day when they're visiting the Homestead, "how do I get rid of my names? You only go by one name; can't I just be Rory the Assassin?"

Uncle Connor almost smiles, in the way that he does. "You have to be very firm about it and never, ever tell anyone the name you do not want to go by. If they know it, they will use it."

Rory sighs heavily. "They all already know it."

Connor shrugs. "I do not know how to help you, Rory, but I wish you luck."

But the worst part about it is the day Elena comes and sits by him, looking troubled. Rory is taking a break after practicing his free-running through the trees.

"How early do you think someone can have visitors?" she asks.

"Early?"

"In life."

"I don't know, why?"

"I think I saw someone being conceived, a few years ago. I didn't know what was going on, but, um, when I asked questions...anyway, I came in during the middle, and, uh..." she trails off. "I couldn't work out why I was there but I think I was visiting whoever was being conceived."

"Who was it?"

She looks at him. "You or Jeanne. But, ah, I think it was you." She scratches the back of her head awkwardly.

"Oh." Rory doesn't know what to say. "So you saw my parents."

Elena can't meet his eyes. "Uh, yeah."

Rory tries to make a joke of it. "Well, so have I. Hasn't everyone? Or at least heard them?" It's true; Shay and Aveline really can't keep their hands off each other.

"Not like this," Elena mumbles.

Rory isn't sure he wants to know. "What, were they upside down or something?"

Elena shakes her head quickly. "It's--look, never mind, I shouldn't have said anything, it's just, I asked, and it's the only reason I know it was you being conceived instead of Jeanne."

Rory is mystified. "What on earth do you mean, Elena?"

Her voice is tiny like it hasn't been since she was a toddler being held by Abstergo. "They weren't alone."

"All right, so someone else saw--"

"No, no, it wasn't just seeing, someone else was _with_ them. You know. Doing it. With them."

"So I'm maybe someone else's son?" His parents have voracious appetites, Rory knows that, but he never imagined they'd ever been with a third person. But at least maybe if there's a chance he's not...he likes Shay well enough as a father, other than the whole Templar thing, but--

"No, it was...it was a visitor, you know, one of their visitors. I couldn't see him but I could hear them talk to him, and--" She bites her lip and flushes. "Well, he was the first one I asked because, well, I heard his name, and because he's my Grandpa..."

No. No. This isn't happening.

Elena continues as if Rory's world isn't collapsing. "I was just a kid, you know? I was nine or ten and I was so excited, I was so proud I could tell that he was visiting but I couldn't figure out what they were all doing together."

"Haytham."

Elena nods, looking miserable. "I think...I mean, obviously he's not your father. But, ah, but it makes sense. You know, he always asks me about you."

"I thought it was just because of the name," Rory says, distantly. This is the worst thing ever. "Maybe he was just, uh, there and couldn't go away." That's happened before. It was _really_ awkward the time Rory saw Elena and Darim making out.

"No," Elena says quietly. "No, I, uh, think he was...doing stuff. With both your parents. Um, actively." She bites her lip. "I think that's why...your name, you know?"

"I am so tired of Haytham Kenway!" Rory shouts. "He's ruined my whole life, right from the very beginning! I can't believe him, getting with my parents! I hate him!" He kicks a small rock and adds viciously, "The next time I visit you, I'm going to punch him!"

"You're not going to punch my Grandpa," Elena insists. "I won't let you."

"Who does he think he is, doing that kind of stuff with my parents?" Rory fumes.

"One of their visitors," Elena points out. "Don't act like _you've_ never had feelings for a fellow visitor."

Rory flushes. How does she know about what he feels for Darim? Darim is _her_ boyfriend, not his. He probably wouldn't even be interested. "That's beside the point," he insists.

"Yeah," Elena agrees. "However it happened, he _cares_ about you."

"Even though I'm an Assassin?" Rory scoffs.

"Everyone he cares about is an Assassin, except for your father," Elena says, rolling her eyes. "Edward, Connor, me, my dad, your mom...you know, I've heard he practically went ballistic when your mom got shot."

That shuts Rory up. He only vaguely remembers a visit to a strange place in the future, everyone frowning with dread. Years later, he happened to visit Elena when she got the full story from...

...from Haytham.

He scrubs his face with his hands, trying to think.

How can Haytham be so compassionate towards so many Assassins? Even Uncle Connor, who _killed_ him?

How can Haytham look out for _Rory_ of all people?

What kind of Assassin has a _Templar_ caring so much about them??

"He picked the wrong side," Rory snaps. "If he likes Assassins so much, he should have been one."

"Wait, Rory, no!" Elena cries.

"I don't need him and I don't need his caring and I don't need Templars and--and--I don't need anything!" He turns away from Elena and refuses to let her see the tears on his face for an hour, until she goes back to her own time, and Rory is left alone again.

He wipes his face and climbs into the nearest tree.

Time to become a better Assassin.


	8. Chapter 8

"I am surely going mad."

The voice wakes Desmond up from where he had fallen asleep watching infomercials. Blearily, he stares at the imposing figure seated on the sagging couch. He's vaguely familiar, although Desmond can't exactly place him. "Huh?"

"Are you mad, as well?"

They stare at each other, and Desmond tries desperately to make the language part of his brain work. Unfortunately, what it comes up with is, "Hello, Surely Going Mad, I'm Desmond."

The other man makes a noise of distressed disgust. "So we are both madmen, you and I."

"No...no, you're just visiting me. I'm guessing this is the future for you...uh...what's your name?"

"Adéwalé," the man tells him, frowning. "Are we in a madhouse?"

"No," Desmond says slowly, "we're in an Assassin safe house." He decides not to mention the two Templars currently residing there. This poor guy, Adéwalé, is having a hard enough time with visiting. "Like I said, you're visiting. I know it feels like being crazy, but it's actually happening."

"This is impossible," Adéwalé tells him in tones of utter certainty, and Desmond tries to remember that he was just as convinced of his own insanity once.

"I know it seems that way, but look--let me show you around, okay?"

Adéwalé seems about to protest some more, but finally throws up his hands and gives in. "...Okay. Show me what this fantasy of my addled mind is like, then."

Desmond points to the TV. "Look, that's a TV, it shows moving pictures from far away."

Adéwalé is unimpressed. "My madness is not very inventive, it seems."

"Well, look at this," Desmond tells him, taking out his phone. "Anything you want to know, you can find out using a phone." He clicks Wikipedia, and it pops up with an article about sailing ships. Desmond is pretty sure that Connor was editing that very article last night.

"You speak as if you were tempting me with these wonders at the cost of my sanity," is Adéwalé's reply.

"Why are you so insistent about this?" Desmond grumbles. "I don't think even I was this bad."

"Desmond?" Aveline's voice floats over from the kitchen, and she waddles out, dressed in pajamas covered in multicolored sheep, carrying a bowl half full of ice cream. "Is it one of the new visitors--oh! You're Edward's first mate!"

Adéwalé stiffens and frowns, as if unsure how to handle this new threat of an obviously pregnant woman in cutesy fleece pajamas. "You know Edward?"

Aveline laughs. "We all know Edward. Not as well as Ezio knows Edward, though." She smirks.

"Ezio Auditore?" Aveline nods and Adéwalé groans. "Now my deranged mind is throwing the names of famous Assassins into the mix," he despairs.

"Is he always like this?" Aveline asks Desmond with a frown.

"For the past ten minutes, yeah," Desmond tells her.

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before," Aveline says firmly, and smiles again at Adéwalé, setting down her ice cream.

"Are you, too, a famous Assassin?" Adéwalé asks, tiredly.

"I don't think I'm all that famous," she tells him with a self-deprecating smile, and holds out her hand. "At least not until recently, but that's another story. I'm Aveline de Grandpré, and I was trained by Agaté, who was one of Ah Tabai's pupils. I don't know if you knew him."

"I did. And what are you doing here in this world of--" Adéwalé gestures to the infomercial for miraculous cleaning products, "moving pictures and information devices? Or are we all in some madhouse somewhere? Because anywhere that Edward Kenway knows Ezio Auditore is clearly far outside the realms of sanity."

"You'll doubt it for some time, I'm sure," Aveline assures him. "But in the end, you'll grow to realize and even appreciate it."

Shay opens the bedroom door just then, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. Aveline makes a shooing motion with her hand, but Shay stands stock-still, staring. "Adéwalé," he breathes, then runs back into the bedroom.

"He knows me?" Adéwalé asks, confused.

Aveline shrugs. "He's met you. it'll be later on for you, earlier for him. Don't tell him you've met his wife; I want to be a surprise for him." She smiles her plotting smile, and Desmond almost feels sorry for Adéwalé. "His name's Shay Cormac. So when you meet him and find out his name, you'll know we're real. Remember that name, Shay Cormac."

"Shay Cormac," Adéwalé repeats dubiously, and vanishes.

"He's going to be so disappointed when he finds out Shay's a Templar," Desmond tells Aveline.

She shakes her head. "I'm not going to tell him. Are you?" She stabs her ice cream with her spoon so ferociously that Desmond shakes his head quickly.

"Not me."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! How crazy is that?

The first thing Darim sees is Rory's tear-streaked face, and his heart sinks. What could have possibly caused that? Then he sees the cat in Rory's lap and stares, uncomprehending.

"She--she was crying," Rory tells him hoarsely. "She was crying, and now she's not anymore."

Darim sits beside him (it's like sitting beside a fire, the way his skin warms under his clothes) and stares at the cat. "Is she sick?"

Rory nods. "She's old. And--and there was a...." He breaks off and bursts into sobs, bawling some sort of explanation that's as incoherent as it is obviously agonizing. "I don't think she...I don't know if she's even breathing anymore," he finishes.

Rory's an Assassin, Darim thinks. He's seen death. Surely he knows how to tell if someone's alive or not. But he reaches over and lays a hand on the cat anyway, and frowns. "She's..."

A fresh wave of sobs chokes Rory, followed by a keening wail. "I don't know what I'll do without her."

"Hey, don't talk like that." Darim reaches his arm around Rory, trying to make it as comforting as he can. "There's still plenty of life out there she wouldn't want you to miss out on."

They sit like that for a while, while Rory's sobs die down to hiccups. "I guess," he says at last, looking into Darim's face. He's so close. So close, and yet so far away, in his private world of grief and anguish.

"You guess?"

"Yeah. I mean...there's my family. And the Assassins. And visitors. And..."

"And what?"

Rory brushes away the tears from his eyes, scrubs his face with the sleeve of his Assassin robes, and manages a wobbly smile. "And there's...there's..."

Before Darim realizes, Rory is moving closer, and Darim sees the tears still glistening on his eyelashes as their lips meet.

The kiss is awkward, and fumbling, and Rory's cat is a depressing obstacle to proper kissing, but Darim is so shocked that none of that matters. "Are you sure?"

"I've been sure for ages," Rory tells him, and kisses him again. "I just...I wasn't scared of being rejected today. Nothing could possibly get any worse, you see? And--you didn't reject me?" His voice is a little unsure.

"No," Darim tells him with a smile. "Never."


	10. Chapter 10

Rory rubs his eyes blearily. He was asleep, and he's not sure if he's dreaming or visiting Jenny. She's older than she usually is when he visits her, but younger, much younger, than when he's seen her in person at the homestead.

Everything else seems surreal. The floor is wet and sticky, everyone is yelling, and there's a man with a sneaky sort of face and his arm around Jenny's neck. Jenny is terrified, he can tell by her eyes, as the man with the big ring on his finger pins her to him. He's got a knife, too, and he's aiming it at Jenny in exactly the way Rory's parents always tell him never to hold a knife unless he plans to hurt someone.

And Rory's not old enough to hurt someone with a knife, but his parents have shown him what it looks like, how the knife is held, and this man definitely wants to hurt Jenny.

There's someone beside Rory, but he doesn't pay any attention. He's focused on Jenny and the man with the ring and the knife. She's straining against him, struggling bravely, and Rory holds his breath with terror. What if the bad man uses his knife on her? Rory tries to go to her side, to see if there's anything he as a visitor can do, and her eyes follow him as he trips over something.

It's a leg.

It's a man's leg, still attached to the man, but there's a _hole_ in the man's chest, and there's a _sword_ through the door, and Rory's parents always put their swords high on the wall where none of the kids can reach them but this one is right at Rory's eye level, and there's _blood_ on it. Rory whimpers and flinches back, just in time. The bad man collides with him, knocking him to the side, but if he hadn't moved he'd have gone right onto the sword, just like the bad man does. The sword is now sticking out of the bad man's back, and now the bad man drops to the floor, and _the sword is covered with his blood_ , and Rory can't stop staring at him.

At him, and at his big, ugly ring.

Who would be so bad to do that to Jenny? Jenny is nice, Jenny's a visitor, Jenny's sad a lot of the time when she's grown up, and it boggles Rory's mind to think that someone could be mean to _Jenny_ of all people.

He whimpers as Jenny comes close and whispers, "Get out of here, Rory!" and then she calls, "Haytham!"

Rory only has enough time to wonder why she's calling him by his middle name before the visit ends, and he's screaming in his bed. He hears footsteps, his father's heavy footsteps, and his heart leaps. Papa will protect him, Papa always has.

Rory sits up and reaches for his father, then freezes when he sees Shay's hand. No. How can his father have a bad man's ring? He cries harder and flinches away, and nothing soothes him but his mother's arms. Not then, and not for months afterwards.

When he finds out what the ring means, he realizes that this is his life's work, to protect everyone from Templars like the one who still haunts his dreams.


	11. Chapter 11

Evie stuffs the criminal inside the carriage and hops up into the seat, taking the reins. And that's where the trouble begins. Jacob is a reckless, impulsive carriage driver, but Evie is an impatient, aggressive one, and that's just as bad. She just can’t bear to wait behind a sedate ladies' carriage; she has to go, go, go, even if it means swerving into oncoming traffic on the right side of the road. Or driving on the pavement.

She takes out a lamppost and cripples a Blighter, then registers that she's no longer alone on the seat. "Whoa!" Desmond calls out, his laughter layered with nervousness. "You drive like you're from New Jersey."

"How do people drive in New Jersey?" Evie asks, cutting off a carriage with a particularly angry looking driver. Not that she would care about New Jersey drivers if Desmond hadn't said something.

"Badly," he tells her drily as they screech to a stop and she hands off the man to Abberline. She starts to protest, then sees the splintered wood, scraped paint, and battered door of the carriage that was nearly new before Evie Frye happened to it.

* * *

Jacob’s trying to talk to Ned and it's hard to concentrate over all the laughter. Once he's alone, he rounds on his visitors. Edward's not a surprise, but he doesn't think he's ever heard Altaïr laugh before, and it's rattling him. "All right, what's the joke?"

"Nothing." Altaïr clasps his hands together, looking innocent.

"We were just wondering," Edward manages through his laughter, "if you were going to kiss--"

"Why would I do that?" Jacob asks bewildered.

"--him," Edward finishes.

"It's traditional," Altaïr says solemnly, "for visitors."

"Aye," Edward chimes in. "Very traditional. Hey, if you don’t, can I?" This sets him off into more laughter, and Altaïr punches him in the arm.

"He might have too much taste to kiss you," Altaïr tells Edward. "Or he might not like kissing men. You don't know."

"You two are nutters," Jacob decides. "I'll tell Evie what fools two of her idols are." This only serves to renew their laughter; Altaïr literally has tears running down his face.

"She looks up... to Edward!" he gasps. "Here I thought she was the sensible twin!"

"Nutters, I tell you," Jacob mutters to himself. "Kissing a bloke. Nutters.”


	12. Chapter 12

Darim practically jumps up from his chair when Rory appears, his eyes alight and mouth curving into a grin. He gestures to the door, and Rory, nodding, heads that way.

Altaïr, still sitting at the table Darim’s just left, barely spares him a glance, so absorbed is he in the Apple.

In the corridor, Darim can't wait, and pulls Rory into a deep kiss. Every kiss with Rory is better and better, and this one is no different. Darim is light-headed when they come up for air.

"You're amazing, you know that, right?" Darim asks.

"Yeah," Rory tells him with a smile. "You too." Their lips meet again, and Rory's tongue in Darim's mouth is a hot coal and a cool breeze all in one.

Darim loosens Rory's hair from its tie and they continue kissing as Darim pulls Rory towards his bedroom. He's got nothing to do this afternoon, and the idea of lying in bed and touching Rory is suddenly very appealing. "God, you're so perfect," Darim murmurs, running his hands down Rory's wiry arms, across his lithe back, down to cup his buttocks through the silly trousers they wear in his time.

"So are you," Rory says in between heated kisses, pressing Darim against the wall of his bedroom, making him practically melt. One thing leads to another, and an hour later, they're lying in Darim's bed, clothes strewn on the floor. Rory's hair is hopelessly sweaty and tangled and he's probably going to have to wash it to get it back into a decent ponytail.

"So..." Darim begins, then laughs and snuggles closer. "What's new with you?" He instantly regrets it, as Rory sits up. His forehead creases and he frowns.

"It's Jeanne. She's been spending more and more time with our father. I really think she's really going to do it, become a Templar, and I don't understand why."

"Maybe she thinks it's right?" Darim offers.

"It's _not_ ," Rory insists. "Templars are--you know."

"Not _all_ Templars," Darim insists. "My mother, your father...they're not all bad."

Darim tries to tug Rory back down into the bed, but he gets up and starts pacing. "You don't understand what they're like in my time. I don't want my sister to become a bad person!"

Darim sighs. "She won't become a bad person. She's our visitor. I _know_ her."

"Do you really want to be visiting a _Templar_?" Rory asks, desperately. "What if she spies on Assassin stuff while she's visiting you?"

"It won't mean anything," Darim tells him sharply, "not five hundred years before her time."

"Well, I'm _not_ five hundred years before her time," Rory snaps. "Don't you understand how bad this could be?"

"I do, I do," Darim tries to soothe him, "I just don't understand why you're getting so agitated."

It's the wrong thing to say. "Of course I'm getting _agitated_. This could be the worst mistake of her life!"

"I know that," Darim tries, "but can we at least have this moment together, just the two of us?" He pats the bed invitingly. Rory begrudgingly lies down, but the happy feeling they'd shared is long gone, and they lie stiffly side-by-side, staring at the ceiling, until Rory goes back to his own time.


	13. Chapter 13

Adéwalé feels himself losing his mind, a little tingle where his skull meets his spine. All of a sudden, the frustrations of his entire day come crashing in on him. He's been shot at, cursed at, and chased by slavers. The elderly man he was trying to save had perished because Adéwalé hadn't hidden him well enough in the underbrush, and he despairs for the Maroons in his care. Now this.

So when he turns around and sees the man in the strange clothes of future assassins, he snaps and lunges for him. Is it his imagination, or is the man actually smiling as he pivots away from Adéwalé's attack?

"I suppose I deserved that, the man says softly, dodging a second attack. "After all, I have attacked many a visitor."

"Whom do I imagine now?" Adéwalé scoffs. "Who joins me in my madness? I have already dreamed of Ezio Auditore. Do I imagine myself in the presence of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?"

"You may imagine what you like," the man tells him, laughter coloring his voice, "but you _are_ in my presence."

Adéwalé curses him in three languages and dives for him. Altaïr is just a fraction of a second too late to evade, and they roll around on the ground, grappling. Altaïr has more experience, but Adéwalé is bigger and heavier, and things go pretty badly for Altaïr, until he's got a hidden blade pressed to his throat.

"You're only going to hurt yourself," he warns.

Adéwalé hesitates, and that's all Altaïr needs to knee him in the crotch and slip out of his grasp.

"What do you mean, hurt myself?" Adéwalé gasps, face crumpled.

"In my younger days, I attacked other visitors, one in particular. But every injury I gave was inflicted only on myself."

"Proof, if ever I needed it, that you are but a projection of my madness."

Altaïr considers. "I suppose you might well see in that way."

Adéwalé scoffs. "I grow tired of my insanity. Here I am, talking to phantoms borne of my own madness."

Altaïr offers, "As phantoms go, at least you chose the best of all Assassins."

Adéwalé nods. "I do not want for arrogance imagining myself in the company of legendary mentors."

"Why settle for less?" Altaïr agrees.

Adéwalé eyes him suspiciously. "I would not expect a real man to agree that he was a hallucination," he warns.

Altaïr smiles. "Nor would you expect it of a figment of your madness."

Adéwalé frowns. "My deranged brain gets cleverer and cleverer at its rhetorical tricks, I see."

Altaïr shrugs. "That is one way to look at it, I suppose."

Adéwalé asks caustically, "And I suppose the other way is to take your word at face value, to--" But it's no good, the imaginary Altaïr has vanished with the wind. Adéwalé scoffs at himself, shaking his head, and turns his steps towards Bastienne's establishment. Perhaps he can get a bed for the night; if he's very lucky, it may be unoccupied. He clearly needs to sleep off this latest attack of his periodic madness.


	14. Chapter 14

"You never told me!" Adéwalé yells, leaping across the front seat of the car to try to strangle Shay with his own seatbelt. "You never told me you were a Templar, you let me think you were an Assassin!"

"And this is why," Shay squeaks, clawing at Adéwalé's hands.

"You _married_ an Assassin!"

"Obviously to convince you that I was one," Shay gasps, trying to unbuckle himself. He slugs Adéwalé in the ear, which distracts him long enough for Shay to wriggle out of the seatbelt, honking the horn in the process. Luckily he's parked at the gymnastics school, not out on the road. "It has _nothing_ to do with her being the love of my life, and everything to do with deceiving you! Our love and our marriage has outlasted both our deaths, but clearly it was all a plot to hide my true allegiance from _you_ , Adéwalé, just from you."

Adéwalé pauses, frowning. "This is all true? She is the love of your life and all that?"

"Aye, and if you don't mind, I'm trying to pick up my daughters from gymnastics class, and I'd rather not get murdered in the process, if it's all the same to you."

They stare at each other for a minute, then Adéwalé slumps back in the seat and sighs. "You were a promising young Assassin. Achilles spoke so highly of you."

Shay shifts guiltily in his seat. "I was, but then I went to Lisbon. And...and you can't understand. All that... all that destruction and it was all down to me. All those innocents were dead because of _me_. I felt I didn't deserve to be an Assassin, and then the only people who helped me out were Templars. And then I started seeing how some of the Assassins I'd known, the didn't really follow the Creed that well. And..." he shrugs.

"I understand a loss of faith," Adéwalé grits out, barely restraining himself from pressing the attack. "I do not understand how you could kill Kesegowaase."

Shay sighs. Kesegowaase seems so very, very long ago. Another lifetime, literally. "Looking back on it, I...I'm not sure I do either. I've made peace with the Assassins." He points to the back seat, with its two booster seats and litter of crayons, granola crumbs, and vinyl horses in unlikely colors. "My family is proof enough of that. I...I thought I was doing the right thing. I was doing the best I knew how, which is no excuse at all. I was doing the best I knew how at Lisbon, too, and that still haunts my nightmares."

Adéwalé shakes his head. "But the Creed, Shay, how could you abandon it?"

"I didn't, Adé, not the most important part. Not that it matters, but I spilled more innocent blood in one day as an Assassin than I ever have as a Templar."

Adéwalé scoffs. "An accident, Shay. You knew nothing of the artifact you touched. _We_ sent you after it, Achilles and I. That is no reason to abandon the Brotherhood."

Shay shakes his head slowly. "Yet they're still dead, every one. My intentions mean nothing against the lives cut short. You can't imagine it, the screaming children, the crying women, the--"

Adéwalé rolls his eyes. "You think I have not seen war and devastation?" He leans closer. "Tell me about the guilt I see in your eyes. Do you take my life, too?"

"I can't tell you," Shay breathes, grateful for Edward's intervention, what seems like a million years ago.

"Hmm." Adéwalé considers. "Achilles? Hope? Liam? Chevalier?"

"I can't answer you," Shay says stiffly.

"I will _try_ to remember, with every death, the man I have grown to know," Adéwalé tells him severely, and Shay breathes a sigh of relief.

"Look, there's my daughters," he says, anxious to change the subject. "Geraldine and Grace. Aren't they wonderful?" Not waiting for an answer, he hops out and shepherds the two little girls into the car, buckling them in and listening to them chatter about their class as he drives them home. Adéwalé sits silent in the passenger seat the whole way, only to vanish as Shay pulls up to the safehouse.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter for today! If you haven't read the previous one (Adéwalé and Shay in a tense situation) make sure to do so!

"There he is," Ezio whispers. "Look at that grace, that power, in his every movement."

"He's truly the best of all master assassins," Evie agrees.

Altaïr looks at them, sighs, and resumes pouring milk into his cereal.

"And he's eating Weetabix instead of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Perhaps that's why he still outclasses every modern Assassin," Ezio points out.

"Cinnamon Toast Crunch is vile," Altaïr insists, mushing up his Weetabix with a spoon.

"I'll take your word for it," Evie says dubiously. She tends to think that cold cereal is not one of the future's improvements on her time.

Ezio frowns. "He's still the best of all assassins despite his tragically wrong opinion of Cinnamon Toast Crunch."

"I hope he goes and trains after breakfast," Evie says. "And lets us watch."

"Do you ever ask Desmond if he could pretend to be Altaïr in bed?" Ezio sighs longingly. Evie gives him a Look. Altaïr bangs his head on the table. Ezio sighs again. "I guess not. But you're in such a unique position! You really should try it."

"I'll pass on that," Evie decides. "I like Desmond as he is."

Altaïr says, around a mouthful of soggy wheat, "I would not prefer Desmond to think he was me, again. That was all rather tragic, Ezio, or don't you remember?"

"Yes, I do," Ezio insists. "I'm just saying, the resemblance is eerie. And if I were in Evie's position I'd take advantage of it."

"And sell tickets, no doubt," Altaïr comments.

"Well, if I had a friend like me, I'd let him watch," Ezio admits.

Altaïr groans.

Evie frowns. "I don't think I'd go that far."

Altaïr sighs with relief. "And for that, you may watch me train after breakfast. Ezio, shouldn't you be cleaning the bathrooms today? It's your duty on the chore chart."

Ezio complains loudly the entire time, but Evie is too enthralled to notice, watching Altaïr doing his unarmed combat drills. She's thrilled when he asks her to spar with him, and surprised when she has to stop herself from breaking his arm. All those fight clubs must have taught her something, she decides, and helps him up reverently.

"Perhaps you have something to show me," Altaïr tells her graciously, and they spend a good two hours on it, her teaching him how to fight like he's in the filthy alleys of industrial London. Ezio watches from the side of the mat, pouting as he lifts weights. After Evie's visit ends, Altaïr invites Ezio onto the mat, and quickly knocks him around with his new knowledge.

Ezio enjoys every minute of it.


	16. The Other Bleeding Effect

Elena knows she's not dying. But she _feels_ like she _is_ , like someone's stuck an eggbeater into her intestines and is grinding away at them. She's hunched over her math book, trying to focus on limits and infinite series when all she feels like is that she's in an infinite series of pain. She looks up and sees Jenny, looking disgusted and angry.

"What's wrong?" Elena whimpers.

"I ruined my new dress," Jenny pouts. "And Father won't understand how. I just wanted to feel _nice_ , not icky, and then I got blood all over it. I tried washing it but it won't come out. How do you get blood out of things, Elena?"

"Usually I use peroxide," Elena explains.

Jenny pouts. "I don't think they even have that stuff in my time."

There's a retching sound from behind Elena, and then Jeanne's miserable voice. "Sorry. I, uh, hope that wasn't important. At least I'm only visiting...?" she trails off, then sighs and throws Elena's homework in the trash. "Sorry," she apologizes again. "I can't help it. Every month it's like this. I think Jacob has the better of it."

"Hard to sail when you're falling asleep on your feet," Jacob says through a yawn. "I'm just so tired and I keep running this fever. All the fellows think I've gotten the pox."

"Have you?" Jeanne asks sharply.

Jacob rolls her eyes. "You're the only woman for me, silly goose." She kisses Jeanne tenderly.

"That's true love," Jenny says wistfully. "Jeanne just puked all over Elena's schoolwork."

"Eh," Jacob says with a shrug. "I've tasted worse." She tucks her wiry body against Jeanne's curvier form and lays her head on Jeanne's shoulder. "I just want a nice nap."

"Elena," Geraldine peeks in the room. This safehouse has enough rooms for Elena to have her own, which is nice, if a bit lonely. Elena's gotten used to the sounds of Geraldine and Grace sleeping, and sometimes she stays awake at night until one of her visitors appears, usually asleep, and then she can fall asleep to the noises they make. Except for Marcello, who snores. "Elena," Geraldine says again, and she's definitely verging on whiny now. "Who were you talking to? Did you have visitors?"

"Yes," Elena says patiently, and Geraldine pouts.

"I want visitors, too! You have them, and Maman has them, and Papa, and Haytham, and everyone else but me and Grace."

"And Shaun and Rebecca and Clay," Elena points out. "You want visitors? Right now Jeanne puked all over my math. You still want visitors even when they barf?"

"Better barfing than how Maman is being all _mean_ right now. She yelled at me for singing too loudly. And then she yelled at Evie for crying."

"What's going on?" Grace asks, sneaking into the room. "Maman is really mad at me for playing Pokémon instead of doing my homework. Usually she just takes away my system but today she got really mean."

"She's probably on her period too," Elena tells Grace, who makes a face.

"Oh, that yucky thing that's making Geraldine a big whiner baby?"

"I'm _not_ a big whiner baby! It's perfectly legitimate to complain that Rebecca ate all my chocolate I was saving in the back of the pantry!"

"Ugh, stop talking about chocolate!" Jeanne claps a hand over her mouth and dry-heaves, briefly waking Jacob, who mumbles a bit and goes back to sleep.

"Your big sister says stop talking about chocolate," Elena delights in telling Geraldine and Grace. "Please don't make her upchuck on my math book or something. My teacher won't see it but I will."

"Eeew, visiting barf," Grace makes a face. "Why is she barfing on your stuff?"

"Because it's her period too," Elena explains patiently.

"So everyone visiting is on the rag like all of us?" Geraldine whines. "This is the worst day ever."

" _I'm_ not," Grace chirps. "I'm not gonna grow up and bleed out of my private parts, nope, no way."

"You are," Geraldine tells her wearily. "And you'll be really, really annoying when you do, I'm sure."

"You guys are boring," Grace decides. "All you do is complain about bleeding. I'm going to go find Daddy, or Papa, or Clay or someone else fun. Maybe Edward will take me to the pool. And none of you can go because you're yucky bleedy girls."

Geraldine sticks her tongue out at Grace and blows her a raspberry.

"Just go," Elena says as she lies back down on her bed, "and let me die in peace, all right?"

"You're not going to _die_ ," Jenny tells her. "I'm twenty and I haven't died yet from it."

"But I feel like it," Elena complains, blinking rapidly as tears start to gather in her eyes. Jenny sighs and cuddles up next to her, and Jeanne and Jacob curl up next to them.

Geraldine looks at Elena, and then at the door Grace has just flounced out of, and sighs. "I don't want to do my homework."

"So don't," Elena advises. "Crawl into bed under the blankets and if your mom is mean to you just burst into tears and say it's your period."

"Can I join you?" Geraldine whines, looking forlorn. "I'm lonely and Grace is being a jerk."

Elena sighs and shifts everyone over. Jacob is nearly falling off the bed. "Sure."

Geraldine pulls the blanket up over everyone, especially Jeanne, and falls asleep almost immediately. Elena shifts a few times until she's almost merely uncomfortable, and surprises herself by falling asleep too, even though Jenny keeps fidgeting every couple of minutes because she can't get settled from the pain.


	17. Chapter 17

Jacob is in a foul mood. He's just received a nasty bump on the head in a fight club, only to find out that Evie had lasted the full five rounds and cashed in handsomely yesterday. So when he appears in front of Edward, he's not in the mood to relax. He wants to train, to get stronger, quicker, tougher, so he can outmatch his sister. He thumps one fist into the other hand just thinking about it.

"You're blocking the view," Edward complains, leaning to one side to see around Jacob.

"What exactly are you looking at, anyway?" Jacob asks, staring at the plastic contraption in Edward's hands.

"They made a game out of my life!" Edward tells him, excited. "It's completely all wrong. But I get to see Kidd again, so it's totally worth it." He swipes at his cheeks furtively with the back of his hand.

"I...see," Jacob says, though honestly he doesn't. He turns around to see the image of Edward dying horribly.

"I hear you're in love with Arno," Edward continues conversationally.

"What?!" Jacob asks, flushing. "Who told you?""

"Never mind who told me," Edward says quickly. "What I want to know is, have you ever kissed a man?"

Jacob blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. "Yes."

Edward frowns. "Damn it!"

"What?" Jacob asks.

"I was going to try to persuade you that you needed to practice with me," Edward tells him.

"Because you had some burning desire to kiss me?" Jacob asks in disbelief.

"Because I had the burning desire to kiss _someone_ ," Edward tells him. "And I wanted to make the offer before Ezio could."

"I've already kissed him," Jacob admits sheepishly.

"Well, he tries to kiss everyone," Edward says matter-of-factly. "He kissed _me_ when I needed to practice kissing a man, after all."

"You...you've kissed Ezio?" Jacob doesn't even know why he's surprised. Of all the visitors likely to kiss, Ezio and Edward are right up there behind Shay and Aveline, and Jacob would definitely put them ahead of, say, Haytham and anyone.

"I wanted to... practice for the man I loved," Edward says evasively. He presses some of the buttons on the plastic device he's holding, and points at the screen. "See, there's Kidd." His voice is desperately sad.

"Did you ever get to kiss him?" Jacob asks, uncomfortable with the wretchedness on the former pirate's face.

"Aye. I kissed James Kidd, and I loved James Kidd, and I lay with James Kidd, just the once, but that was deadly enough."

"Deadly?" Jacob asks, watching the image of Kidd run and jump. "Deadly how?"

Edward looks up at him. "You don't know?" Jacob shakes his head, and Edward sighs. "Kidd was a woman, Mary Read. She wanted me to father a child on her, and it was that child whose birth killed her." Edward stares at the floor. "So you know, now, I loved a man, I kissed him, and I killed him with all my love."

"I love a man I killed, too," Jacob says hollowly. "Don't think I'll ever--he was the first man I kissed. Except myself."

Edward looks up at him. "Did you know, my daughter--Kidd's daughter--lived most of her life under the name Jacob?"

Jacob blinks. "No, I didn't know that. What was she like?"

Edward grins, now. "You can meet her someday if you want. She's one of Elena's visitors." He smirks. "She's why Elena calls you a girl."

"What's it like, then?" Jacob asks curiously. "Having children, not being able to see them?"

"In my whole life, I never met her," Edward says thoughtfully. "I saw her once, when I was visiting Shay or Aveline. She was tough, and strong. She was an Assassin and a sailor and she lived as a man, just as her mother did." He scratches his head thoughtfully. "You know, I'm luckier than Shay and Aveline. All of my children, and my grandson, and my great-grandson, I can talk to by visiting, if not in person. Shay and Aveline have two children they'll never see again, two children who are lost to them and dead. They lived long lives, but they weren't visitors." He looks up at Jacob and tells him, "I'm the luckiest visitor. Look at all the loved ones, all the family I have."

"You don't sound very happy," Jacob hazards.

"I miss Kidd," Edward whispers. "I got to say goodbye to her--I never got to say goodbye to either of my wives--but it's Kidd I want to see again." He looks up at Jacob. "Do you love Arno like that? That if you lost him you'd think of nothing but finding him again? You'd accept," he waves at the screen, "a pale imitation of him if that was all you could get?"

Jacob nods. "I would."

Edward smiles, a knowing smile that makes him actually look like a grownup. "So you understand." He then curses as the Edward in the game falls off a rock and dies horribly.


	18. Chapter 18

Haytham is watching the movie with the two animated sisters for what seems like the hundredth time, Elena tucked comfortably against his side, when she pauses the movie and asks, "What's it like, grandpa, having a sister?"

"Well...ah...I never met Jacob, and Jenny didn't really spend any time with me," he hedges. "I was many years younger than her."

"If I had a sister, I'd be the big sister, wouldn't I?" Elena grins. "Then she'd have to take my side."

"You have Geraldine, she's like a sister," he points out.

"She's _really_ little," Elena retorts, frowning. "When does she get to be fun?"

Haytham smiles a little. "Ask Jenny when I got to be fun."

Elena looks at the other couch, then informs Haytham, "She says you're three years old and still not fun."

"Oh, that's not fair," Haytham complains. "She hated everything in the world when I was three."

"She doesn't hate her guinea pig," Elena defends her visitor.

"I loved her guinea pig too!" Haytham insists.

Elena giggles. "She say you ate a guinea pig poop once. That was the funniest thing she ever saw."

Haytham sighs heavily. "Jenny, will you sit with us and watch the movie?" He looks to Elena for the answer.

"She says yes. Move over, grandpa!" They scoot along the couch, making room for Jenny, and Elena unpauses the DVD. They watch the movie in companionable silence for some time, then Elena pipes up. "Jenny wants to know if you'd look out for her like _they_ do." She points at the singing animated royalty on the screen.

"Yes!" Haytham reminds himself that this is a Jenny that knows nothing of her own future, a spoiled young woman who has no idea that her little brother will kill for her, nearly die for her, lose his best friend for her. "Yes, Jenny, I'll always protect you as best I can. Sometimes it...it won't be enough, but I'll still be trying."

"I'm gonna let Jenny hug you, okay Grandpa? But you can't pretend to kiss her and then lick her face and laugh like a madman, she says. She's really tired of you doing that," Elena reports.

Then she sits up a little straighter, and Haytham knows he's holding his big sister. He throws his arms around her, wishing he could tell her that she'll suffer but it'll end, that he'll come for her one day. Instead he just hugs her even tighter.

"Haytham," she complains, "You're crushing me."

"I just wanted to hug you," he tells her.

" _Haytham_ ," she whines, but pats him on the head fondly. "At least you'll grow up nice. Even though you are kind of a pest to me most of the time."

He swallows the lump in his throat. "Jenny, I'm not a nice man," he tells her gently. "But I'll always be there for you when I can."

"Don't be silly," she tells him practically. "Someday, you'll learn how the world works, little brother. _I'm_ the big sister; _I'm_ here to look after _you_ , so don't worry. I'll take care of you."

"Of course." The lump keeps coming back, no matter how many times Haytham tries to swallow it. "How could I forget?"

"Take care you don't," she tells him severely. "I mean, you are a silly little brother after all." But she hugs him again.

He can't stop hugging her until Elena squirms in his arms. "Grandpa, let's start up the movie again."

"Sure," he says, blinking rapidly.


	19. Chapter 19

"No, dear," Aveline says delicately.

"They're very fashionable these days, I hear," Shay offers, turning around and looking at himself in the mirror.

"Shay, beloved husband, skinny jeans are for--how shall I say it?--skinny people. And you are pleasingly not skinny."

"But I'm not _fat_."

"No, you're...ripped. That's what they call it nowadays." Aveline runs her hands up and down Shay's legs, smiling. "You're a very well-built man with well-muscled legs."

Shay pulls her up into a kiss until a store employee clears her throat loudly at them. Aveline breaks off the kiss and smiles at the girl, looking at her nametag. "Say, ah, Jacquie. My husband shouldn't wear skinny jeans, should he?"

Jacquie scopes out Shay's bulging leg muscles that are nearly tearing the jeans apart. "No, I can't see how you can even move in those, honestly."

"I can't," Shay admits.

"Do you work out?" she continues. "Because I'm not so satisfied with my gym, honestly, and yours looks like it gets results."

Aveline clears her throat and links her arm with Shay's possessively. "Shay, darling, why don't I help you out of those ridiculous jeans?" she asks, guiding him towards the dressing room.

"No sex in there!" Jacquie calls out as they close the door.

"How could she tell?" Shay asks. "She doesn't even know us."

Aveline silences him with a kiss.


	20. Chapter 20

"Where were you?" Aveline demands of Shay and Haytham as they walk sheepishly through the door. "You come home two hours late, you don't call--what happened? Did your mission take extra time?"

"No, love, not exactly," Shay mumbles. He catches Haytham's eye and grins. "We got sidetracked on the way back."

Aveline crosses her arms above her belly, as if to remind them that she's due any day with _their_ child. "Sidetracked how?" she snaps. "Were you pursued? Did Abstergo follow you?"

"No, not at all!" Shay tells her, kissing her. "We're fine, Aveline. More than fine."

"Your breath tastes horrible," she tells him bluntly.

Haytham turns pink and shifts uncomfortably. "Shay, perhaps you'd better brush your teeth. After...ah...um."

" _Oh_." Aveline draws back and looks at Shay, who is now turning red. "So _that's_ why you're late." She grinds her teeth. "I should slap you, you know."

"What?! For what?" Shay asks indignantly. "You _like_ it when we--"

"For making me worry!" Aveline rages. "I should slap the both of you! Here I was imagining all sorts of terrible things--that Abstergo caught you, that assassins got to you--and all you were doing was putting yourself in danger of being arrested for violating sodomy laws!"

"Well, I don't think we were technically..." Haytham trails off.

"There's still sodomy laws?" Shay asks. "I thought people in the future came to their senses about that."

"Yes, there's still sodomy laws," Aveline tells them. "They're not _supposed_ to be enforced, but they're there. What, don't you think I worry about the two of you?" she asks in response to their stares. "I know what states you're free to cavort in and what ones you have to be careful in." She pokes Shay in the chest. "The _point_ is, you should have called and told me what you planned to do!"

"It was a spur of the moment thing," Shay insists.

Aveline frowns at Haytham. "Then _you_ should have called me during! Even if Shay couldn't because his mouth was busy, even if all you did was moan incoherently into the phone, at least then I would have known why you'd be late."

"I'm sorry, Aveline," Haytham says sincerely, bowing his head. "We didn't think."

"Not with the heads on top of your shoulders, no," Aveline tells him. She sighs and smiles, then kisses Haytham, much to his surprise. "Welcome back. I'm assuming the mission went well?"

"Well enough," Haytham tells her. "I can't tell you more than that."

"And after the mission..." Shay grins. "That went really well."

"Yes," Haytham agrees through a crippling blush. "It did indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, in the US, sodomy laws are [still on the books](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sodomy_laws_in_the_United_States) despite a Supreme Court ruling against them.


	21. Chapter 21

Haytham becomes suspicious when he hears repeated flushing accompanied by laughter. "Grace?" he calls. "Grace! Are you in there?"

"Yes, Daddy," she calls, giggling.

"Are you well, Grace?" he asks warily.

"I'm fine, Daddy," she answers. Then flushes again. Then laughs again.

"What is going on?"

"Nothing, Daddy."

Haytham may not be the world's best or most experienced father, but he knows a lie when he hears one, and so he picks the lock on the bathroom door and finds his daughter standing over the toilet with a box of tea.

Tea??

"What are you doing?" he asks mildly.

She drops a teabag in the toilet nonchalantly and flushes it. "We learned about the Boston Tea Party today in school," she tells him. "And I figured, there's no ocean here, but I could dump tea in the toilet!"

"It's _my_ tea!" he protests.

"And you're British," she chirps, with a big grin on her face.

"No, no, no," he insists, taking the box of teabags. "This is my expensive imported tea. Plus, teabags are bad for toilets." That he's not sure about, but it's worth saying. "If you want to re-enact the Boston Tea Party, I'll find some way for you to do that with your brothers."

"Really?" she asks, excited. "Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond would do that?"

Haytham nods. "I believe they're both experienced in wasting perfectly good tea." He opens the door.

Connor is standing outside the bathroom with a puzzled frown on his face. "Father?"

Haytham gently pushes Grace towards Connor. "Son, your sister is interested in a different type of tea party now. And as that's your speciality, I thought you could help her out. But not with my fancy tea."

Connor looks down at Grace, his expression inscrutable. Then he smiles, as he so rarely does, wide and smirking. "Come along, Grace, and I will tell you all about _tea_."


	22. Chapter 22

Adéwalé is losing himself in Bastienne's sweet lips, grinding against her trim body, and is just about to take her when he sees one of his hallucinations out of the corner of his eye.

"Who--oh--it's--oh god no," his hallucination says, clapping his (only) hand over his eyes. "Why? Why me?"

That's pretty much how Adéwalé feels. Can he not even do _this_ without being tormented by phantoms of his obviously diseased brain? Resolving to put it out of his mind, he turns his attention back to Bastienne, her seductive curves, and the delightful noises she's making.

"Who are we watching?" Another figment of his imagination, this one the famous Assassin Ezio Auditore, joins the first.

"I'm not watching anything," the first figment, the one called Desmond (and Adéwalé wonders, briefly, where his mind came up with such a name with such a pronunciation) insists.

"Then you are missing out," Ezio says, in tones of admiration.

"Adéwalé?" Bastienne asks. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no matter," he is quick to reply. "My mind was far away for a moment."

"Ah," she says sympathetically. "Let go of your worries, Adéwalé. Take joy in my body as I take joy in yours." She punctuates this with a purposeful movement of her hips and a soft gasp, and Adéwalé turns his attention fully to her.

"She's quite lovely," Ezio comments after a minute or so. Adé sighs.

"How can you even look?" Desmond asks, horrified.

"They're both highly attractive people, doing very exciting things," Ezio reasons. "Of course I'm going to watch."

Adéwalé ignores Ezio and tries very hard to keep his full attention on Bastienne, as she deserves. And for some minutes, it works: their bodies move as one, her moans drown out any comments from his imaginary peanut gallery, and they climax near enough to count as together. A genuine smile curves his lips as they make themselves comfortable in the bed.

And then.

"Adéwalé, my friend, were you trying to get her pregnant?" Ezio asks brightly.

"I have had _enough_ out of you!" Adéwalé yells, jumping up out of the bed and rushing towards Ezio. He's not sure what he intends to do to the figment of his diseased mind, but Ezio is startled enough that Adé slaps him around and yanks out some of his hair.

"My friend, please stop!" Ezio pleads, raising his hands in surrender. "I should not have intruded, I know this, but you're only hurting yourself!" He winces and pats his scalp gingerly. Desmond hides behind his upraised arm, peeking out warily.

Adéwalé throws Ezio's hair on the ground, then turns back to the bed to see Bastienne looking at him oddly. "It was..." He gestures to Ezio, and sighs, knowing that he'll sound like a madman. "Ever since I landed on Saint-Domingue--" or before; didn't it start in the storm, with the phantom of Edward? "--I have been _visited_ by strange hallucinations."

"Hallucinations," she repeats skeptically.

"Of people," he explains. "About a dozen of them. Some of them famous Assassins. One of them Edward Kenway, whom I served as quartermaster for. They claim they are real; however, none but I can see them."

"That is generally the case with hallucinations," she agrees.

"Oh, no, this isn't going well," Desmond warns. "Eject! Eject! Get out of this conversation!"

Ezio winces, prodding his swelling cheek, still red from Adéwalé's hand.

"And two of them were over there," Adéwalé finishes lamely, pointing at Ezio and Desmond. "It is not fair, that they can intrude on even such a private moment."

"It isn't," Bastienne agrees, reaching for her dress. She kisses Adéwalé chastely and tells him, "Sometime when your mind is healed of these...phantoms and we can have a truly _private_ moment...come back to me."

Adéwalé nods sadly, one hand going to his suddenly stinging cheek, then up to his scratched scalp. When he looks, he sees only Desmond, whose face is screwed up in some sort of wordless message that Adé can't decipher for the life of him. He stares until Desmond, too, vanishes, and Adéwalé is left alone, with nothing but the bed to remind him how well his night _was_ going.


	23. Chapter 23

Shay has done a great many things over the course of his long, strange life. Bad things, yes; Lisbon will haunt him every night for as long as he draws breath and maybe even after. The faces of his old friends still pop into his mind, bloody and accusing. But he's also done good things, rebuilt homes and churches, helped people. He's raised a family, and is raising another. He's fallen in love.

And right now, it seems like the biggest accomplishment ever that he's convinced Haytham to sit on the couch and kiss him.

Haytham, of course, acts like it's a big Templar secret that he and Shay like to kiss, and will only do so in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. But today, all the assassins are out on assassin business, and even though it still feels odd not to try to foil their assassin plans, Haytham and Shay have stayed behind at the safehouse with the children. But the children are in bed, and so Shay was able to wheedle Haytham into a fairly steamy makeout session on the couch. Haytham’s hair is unbound, and his trousers have been unbuttoned to make room for Shay's hand, and his chapped lips have been thoroughly kissed. He's got his fingers tangled in Shay's hair and his other hand under Shay's shirt when the door opens.

Shay sighs, very quietly, as Haytham pulls himself from Shay's clutches. It's not like there's anyone at the safehouse who doesn't know they're lovers. Even--Shay looks up--Shaun and Rebecca know.

Shaun is conspicuously averting his eyes and harrumphing. "Don't let us interrupt you," he says awkwardly.

Haytham self-consciously tries to button his pants without being noticed. "You weren't. Shay and I were just--"

"I believe you call it 'making out'," Shay interrupts him. "You know, kissing and touching. As lovers do." Haytham flushes dark, dark red.

Rebecca pokes Shaun in the back. "Come on, let's leave them to it." She practically drags him into a room, despite his complaints that he's actually quite hungry.

"You didn't have to--" Haytham begins.

"Yes, yes I did, _sir_ ," Shay cuts him off. "I was quite enjoying myself, and I know you were too." Haytham mumbles in embarrassed agreement, and Shay nods decisively. "So we can either continue out here, or in the bedroom." He kisses away Haytham’s protests, and pins him to the couch so as to lavish attention on the curve of his neck.

"In the bedroom, I think," Haytham says breathlessly as the door opens again.

Ezio grins widely at them and settles himself into an armchair with a good view. "Don't let go of each other just for my sake," he insists as Shay picks up his socks and Haytham grabs his jacket off the arm of the couch.

"It's only temporary," Haytham tells him coolly. "We intend to resume once out of your sight."

Ezio sighs theatrically and calls, "I'll be listening!" as Haytham leads Shay into the bedroom.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of this fic is meant to make fun of a specific author or even a specific pairing...except for the bit at the end aimed at myself and my co-writers.

"I can't believe they made a game out of you," Ezio says, mashing buttons on the controller. On the screen, Aveline dies horribly.

"I can't believe you're so bad at being an Assassin in this game," the real Aveline tells him. "Shh shh shh, back to your lunch," she coos at baby Geraldine, who's stopped nursing to make unhappy noises.

"Well, you can't even pick up corpses," Ezio complains.

"I don't need to pick up corpses," Aveline explains patiently. "I just change my clothes. They got that right, anyway." She's still more enthralled by her newborn daughter than she is interested in a game of herself.

Clay walks in, sucking applesauce out of a pouch. "Oh, you're playing Liberation? I'd help you out, but, ah, it's based on an Animus and the last thing I need is to bleed more of you guys. No offense, Aveline." He awkwardly looks over her head as she shifts Geraldine to the other side.

Ezio fails at the mission again and sighs. "Maybe they made it into a book or something. I can deal with books."

Clay starts to snicker. "Well, there's always fanfic."

"...fan...fic?" Ezio asks.

"Fanfiction. You know. People write stories about the characters they like from movies and games and books. Here, let me show you." Clay pulls out his phone and searches, then clicks a few times, then scrolls, shaking his head. "Uh, you might not even want to read any of this stuff. It's looking smutty.”

"What do you mean, smutty?” Aveline asks.

"Well, ah, there's all kinds of...I guess 'romance' stories. A lot of people saying you get with Connor."

Aveline shakes her head, chuckling. "Where would they get that idea?"

Clay shrugs. "From what I heard, there's a memory in Liberation where you meet up with Connor and work together."

Aveline nods. "And we did indeed work together, but why would they think that we were more than friends?"

Clay sighs. "How can I explain this? People will see romance in anything. It can be someone you only meet once. Or sometimes, someone you don't even meet. It can be someone you hate, or someone who's a part of your family even. There'll be fanfic where you're having explicit sex with them."

Ezio brightens at 'explicit sex'. "How explicit?"

Clay rolls his eyes. "How explicit does the English language get? There's all kinds of--well, no, this one's really good.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I can't show you this one.”

Aveline cradles Geraldine against her shoulder and pats her back. “Why not? You said it was good.”

“It's making _me_ want to sleep with Connor,” he tells her. “I can't have you reading this and leaving Shay. Here, let me find something bad… look, take this one for example." He clears his throat and begins to read.

> _"Connor kissed Aveline on the lips, and she kissed him back on the lips. It was like he was waiting thousands of years to get with her."_

Aveline looks amused. "I like Connor as a friend. Not like that."

Clay makes a face. "Now it goes right into a sex scene. It's pretty gross and out of place."

"How can sex be out of place?" Ezio asks.

Clay sighs. "That line I read you? That was the first line of the piece. He's already penetrating her by the third sentence." His voice is strained and weak. "And this is pretty kinky, too. Mmhmm...she ties him up..." He scrolls down. 

"Nothing wrong with that," Aveline objects. "Other than it being Connor. You know, you'd better make sure he never finds out about this. Or Haytham. He'd freak out. Actually, so would Shay."

"Do you tie up Shay?" Ezio asks brightly.

Aveline smirks. "Never you mind." She busies herself with tucking Geraldine back into the bassinet.

Clay continues.

> _"Connor knew there was no other woman ever for him than Aveline. Just thinking about her made him hard like a tree. He had to get off sometimes three times a day because of her. He would think of Aveline's tufted treasure and all of a sudden he'd burst out of his pants and have to go take care of his hard-on."_

Aveline shakes her head. "Who writes this stuff?"

Clay scrolls up to check. "Some guy whose username is fannish_standish. No idea. Sounds like he's never been with a real woman. Or else it's a girl who doesn't know anything about her own anatomy, but I think this one is a guy. You can tell sometimes by what they're slightly less ignorant about." He clears his throat and continues.

> _"One day, Connor was giving her a good wick-dipping,"_

"What?" Aveline asks, confused.

"They were having sex," Clay translates.

"I got that, but I've never heard it called that before."

"Huh. He says he uses historical terms for things. He makes a big deal out of it."

"Obviously he's not historical enough," Ezio comments, amused.

Clay continues.

> _"with his Captain Standish right between her beef curtains."_

Aveline crosses her legs, looking embarrassed. "That's a horrible way of saying that. Where on earth did he come up with it?"

Clay almost can't continue from laughing so hard.

> _"'Oh,' Aveline whimpered, 'you show me such amazing things, Connor. How did you ever know how to furgle me so well?'_
> 
> _"'Lots of shagging,' Connor replied."_

Ezio bursts into laughter and Aveline hides her face. "Oh dear. Oh, oh, oh dear. How could he have gotten us so wrong?"

> _"They danced the blanket hornpipe all night long until Aveline just couldn't stand to be spliced anymore. Connor wanted some more horizontal refreshment, but because I was a good guy"_

"Wait, what?" Clay interrupts himself, then rolls his eyes. "I mean it was obvious that Connor was a self-insert but come on, dude, use your find and replace!"

> _"he held off on his intense need for more fuddle."_

"That one I've heard," Aveline tells them, shaking her head. "Of course, I heard my children saying it, so it doesn't really put me in an amorous mood."

> _"After all, he practically worshipped Juno."_

"Huh? I thought it was supposed to be me he worshipped!" Aveline sounds offended, other than the snickering. "Keep it straight, lame author-man!"

Clay shakes his head. "He obviously just repurposed a fic from another fandom."

"I'll assume that makes sense somehow," Ezio says.

> _"He laid back in the bed and thought of the many times he had popped it in Aveline. He just couldn't help it that he was so suave and good with his trouser serpent. It was a natural gift he had for taking a turn among her frills, and she was more than happy to welcome his shaft of delight into her carnal mantrap. The only problem was that his love truncheon was so large that he quite wore her out."_

Aveline can't speak for giggling. Ezio muses, "I wonder how big it really is." For some reason, that just sets Aveline off more.

"I shouldn't!" she gasps. "Oh, poor Connor."

"At least this one isn't a threesome," Clay points out.

Aveline wipes her eyes and asks carefully, "Why, is there a lot of that?"

"Some. There's a small group of writers who are convinced that you're with Shay, and one of them wrote one where you were having a threesome with Haytham."

"Oh," Aveline says, too quietly to be heard under Ezio's guffawing.

"Haytham? In a threesome?" Ezio laughs until he hiccups. "Can you even imagine that?!" Aveline rolls her eyes and smiles, then looks quietly alarmed as Ezio continues, "I'm definitely going to tell him there's stories about the three of you."

"No, don't!" Aveline casts about for an excuse. "You know how he is about things like that. It would be extremely cruel."

Ezio can't stop laughing through his hiccups. "He's so repressed!"

"He's a passionate person!" Aveline insists. "...probably."

"Yes, passionate about the Templars," Ezio laughs. "And passionate about Ziio, I'll grant him that." He finally begins to calm down, although he continues to be stricken with mirth and hiccups. "Maybe he's secretly passionate about you! Or Shay." This sets off a fresh wave of giggles. "All those top secret Templar meetings...do you really know what they get up to?"

Aveline rolls her eyes. "Plotting and planning...or so he says. I always thought we Assassins got more than the Templars, though. They have all those rules, and we say everything is permitted."

Clay nods. "Especially if you go by these fics, you get as much as you can handle and then some."

Ezio can't stop laughing. He keeps trying valiantly, but he just can't. "Oh, Clay, this was wondrous! What other delights are there on the Internets?"

Clay shakes his head. "You don't even want to know the half of it."


	25. Chapter 25

"Did you bed her?" Evie asks in a tone of complete disinterest.

"No, actually, it's a funny story..." Jacob trails off, his face beginning to redden.

"Do tell. Or don't," Evie adds. "Altaïr and I can get back to Assassin business, then." Altaïr furrows his brow in concern for Evie's frosty tone.

"She's a Templar," Jacob says casually as soon as Evie turns away from him.

She swivels back. "What? You were trying to seduce a _Templar_ all along?"

"Surely that's not the worst thing he could ever do," Altaïr interjects.

"She was trying to seduce _me_!" Jacob insists. "And I nearly got caught spying on them."

"Of course you did," Evie sighs. "Jacob, did you pay attention _at all_ when you were supposed to be learning about stealth, or were you considering your next ridiculous hat purchase?"

Jacob huffs. "My hats are not ridiculous. What's ridiculous is your obsession with Pieces of Eden."

"It's not ridiculous--" Evie snaps.

"Haven't you heard what Shay says about Pieces of Eden?" Jacob asks, looking smug.

Evie gives him a very superior look. "You expect me to concern myself with what a Templar says about Pieces of Eden?"

Jacob shrugs, hands in the air. "I just mean to say, perhaps we'd better focus on more practical pursuits. We've got a list of Templars to get rid of, a handful of gang leaders to topple, and some criminals to take off the streets."

"Be careful about killing from a _list_ ," Altaïr warns, ignored by the other two.

"And if I find the Piece of Eden, we can take them out all the more easily," Evie tells him, smiling. "Run along and play with your gang, Jacob, I have work to do."


	26. Chapter 26

Haytham never thought he'd have Aveline in his lap. Or any Assassin, for that matter. Or any woman, after Ziio threw him out. But here Aveline is, determined and tough, moaning into his ear as she clutches him tightly. "Oh, Haytham," she murmurs. "You are entirely the Grand Master of sexy times."

"The  _ what_?" he sputters. "Aveline, that's...that's a horrible thing to say."

She bursts into laughter and kisses him fully before continuing. "You don't think your title carries over into the bedroom? Have you  _ seen _ the way Shay is with you?"

"I know  _ that_," he says impatiently. "But my rank as a Templar is not, is not  _ meant _ to be used as, as dirty talk by an Assassin in bed! Or...chair, as the case may be."

She laughs, and kisses him again. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody told me that," he mumbles, his hands seeking her breasts as he returns her kiss. "It was implied."

"Mmhmm," she says briskly, moving in his lap. "Well. I assume it was  _ implied _ that you shouldn't be in bed with an Assassin at all. Do you know what I think about these implications?"

"Nothing generous, I'm sure," he gasps.

"I think," and she pauses to moan a bit, "I think the Grand Master of sexy times is above these  _ implications_. It would be a  _ shame _ for him not to give  _ this _ Assassin what she so desperately  _ needs _ just because of some imaginary Templar authority who shares no love with any Assassin." She moves more quickly now, her breath catching in her throat, and clutches Haytham's shoulders.

The chair falls over, and Haytham tries to shout, but it comes out as a gurgle because Aveline's tongue is in his mouth and he's trying very hard not to bite it, and also to keep the full force of the impact from hurting her. But then she slides fully onto him with a little sigh, and all thoughts fly right out of his mind as he bucks up into her. His fingers are digging into the soft skin of her buttocks, and she's moaning delightfully, and she's so warm and wet and close and  _ wonderful _ and he wonders briefly why he fought so long against his  _ feelings _ when he could have been having this ecstasy all along.

"I'm the Grand Master of foolishness," he tells her breathlessly, and she laughs.

"Possibly," she agrees, then speeds up her pace.


	27. Chapter 27

It's a lazy sort of day around the safehouse. Edward's out at sea, but mostly everyone else is at home, lounging on the couches and trying to keep Elena, Geraldine, and Grace entertained. Currently, Clay and Shay are having a Pokémon battle--Shay's borrowed one of Clay's cartridges, but is losing spectacularly through unfamiliarity with the general mechanics of the game. This doesn't deter Geraldine and Grace from cheering him on and giving him contradictory bad advice.

Altaïr, though, is far from relaxed. He keeps checking his phone with a general air of uncomfortable tension. Connor notices, and quietly follows him when he leaves the safehouse in the mid-afternoon.

Altaïr is still trying to work the electronic lock on the car when Connor sidles up. "Do you need a ride?"

"No, I...I believe I can handle this by myself," Altaïr tells him.

"Are you sure?" Connor persists, and Altaïr frowns.

"Very well, I would appreciate a ride," he says formally.

Connor unlocks the door and gets into the driver's seat as Altaïr climbs in on the passenger side. After a minute of just sitting there, Connor prods, "Where are we going?"

"To the airport," Altaïr tells him distractedly, and Connor puts the car into gear and pulls out.

In the car, Altaïr says hesitantly, "Are you aware of the situation in my homeland?"

Connor nods. "The world is focused on the plight of your home and your people." He's mostly successful at keeping the bitterness from his vaice.

Altaïr nods. "I shall return this favor, Connor. You have only to ask." Taking a deep breath, he begins, "As you know, there are many refugees from Syria spreading across the world, where they get less than a warm welcome." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I have paid for two of them to fly in, and arranged for a home to take them in." In response to Connor's quizzical look, he explains, "They are two young boys, orphaned while fleeing their home."

"And you need to pick them up at the airport?"

Altaïr nods. "And deliver them to their host family." Connor says nothing, and Altaïr adds, "I want to make sure they're all right."

"Why these boys?" Connor asks softly.

Altaïr sighs. "Because they have the name once borne by a dear friend of mine. Perhaps they are his descendants, perhaps not. But Malik would... _disapprove_ if I knew of Al-Sayf boys in need and did not help them."

Connor half-smiles. "The political is always personal, is it not?" He navigates the maze of offramps and lane mergers to get to short-term parking and selects a space not too far from the shuttle bus, which they ride to the terminal. Altaïr buys a marker and a notebook and neatly writes something in Arabic--Connor presumes it's the boys' names.

They wait by the baggage claim, attracting strange looks from passersby that Connor counters with glares, and security seems to be keeping rather more of an eye on them than necessary.

"I am sorry," Connor offers. "Perhaps you should have brought Ezio, or Clay, or Rebecca. I am no help at blending in here."

"It is of no moment," Altaïr assures him. "Look! There they are."

Connor isn't sure what to expect, but he recognizes the looks on the faces of the two little boys. They have lost their parents, their home, and everything they know.

Connor has lived through much the same.

The boys hesitantly approach, and Altaïr tries to muster a welcoming smile. Connor, too, smiles in a friendly manner. The older of the boys comes up first, holding his brother back as he speaks to Altaïr distrustfully.

Only long years of visiting the legendary Assassin let Connor know that Altaïr is practically weepy--or as close as he gets, anyway--when the boy relents and lets his younger brother run up and hug Altaïr's knees.

It's a good start, and Connor smiles as the four of them head out to the car with the boys' pitiful backpacks containing their few worldly possessions.


	28. Chapter 28

"So," Jenny tells Rory awkwardly. "Your sister and mine."

"Mmhmm," he answers. "Jacob and Jeanne." He rocks on his heels, back and forth. "Sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Jenny asks. "At least _someone's_ happy in love."

"Sorry she's a Templar. I tried my best--"

Jenny barks out a laugh, even though she doesn't smile. "Rory. My own brother's a Templar. Do you think I care if people are Assassins or Templars? Both have wronged me, and I have both among my visitors." She sighs heavily. "Neither one has saved me. My brother _promised_..."

"What are the promises of a Templar worth, anyway?" Rory scoffs.

Jenny rolls her eyes. "When it's my brother or your sister or your father, plenty." She sighs. "I'm going to grow old here..."

"No you won't," Rory insists. "I've seen you old. You and Jacob, living with Uncle Connor." He clears his throat meaningfully. "An Assassin."

Jenny smiles thinly. "You mean Matthew's father."

Rory looks shocked. "You _know_? Already?"

Jenny nods. "I think he must be my brother's son, although they hardly act it in Elena's time from what I've seen."

"Hmm," Rory agrees, and they lapse until companionable silence, until Jenny speaks up again.

"I want so much to talk, yet when I've the chance I've nothing to say."

"You can say anything you like," Rory assures her. "What is it like, where you are?"

Jenny frowns. "It might offend your delicate sensibilities, but--" And she launches into a diatribe about her duties, the other girls, the eunuchs (especially the vicious old fat one that loves to torment the girls,) and her longing to be saved. "I helped Jacob write a letter to Haytham," she finishes, "but nothing's happened yet."

"I'm sure it will," Rory tells her, completely unsure but wanting desperately for something, anything to help his visitor.

"Psh, you were down on Templars just a few minutes ago," Jenny says with a smile. "What causes this change of heart?"

"I want you to be happy," Rory says seriously. "If your brother rescuing you will make you less unhappy, I'm all for it."

Jenny smiles and thanks him, then turns the conversation to reminiscing about her home and family.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place immediately after [Visitorial chapter 91](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5889880/chapters/15133084).

Haytham rolls his eyes as Ezio comes out of Edward's bedroom half-dressed, then gapes as Arno follows him. "You--you--" He flushes. "I am not going to ask what was going on, because I could hear perfectly well, but I am surprised at you, Arno."

"It wasn't me!" Arno says, and Haytham looks closer at the crushed expression on his face.

"Very well. I apologize." But he shoots Ezio a dirty look.

Ezio laughs. "Haytham, you are the last person in this family who has any right to be disapproving of people bedding one another."

"I have every right to disapprove of anyone bedding _my father_ ," Haytham huffs.

"No, you really don't," Ezio tells him firmly. "He is as lonely as you were. You have found love; would you deny him a mere physical thrill?" He stretches, as if to emphasize with his shirtless body the physicality of the thrills he provides.

Haytham hmphs and averts his eyes. "You could at least try not to torment Arno."

Ezio looks at Arno thoughtfully. "Yes, that was a complication we could have done without. I don't think Jacob had taken that possibility into consideration." Arno briefly looks even more devastated, if possible, then steels himself into a surly expression.

"Wait, Jacob?" Haytham asks, rubbing his eyes in frustration. "He was there--no, don't even tell me. I don't want to know."

"You're not the only Kenway in a three-way today," Ezio laughs.


	30. Chapter 30

It was easier, Haytham reflects, when his toughest parenting challenge was staying alive. Now he has to navigate a minefield of squabbles and jealousy that culminate in his granddaughter calling his daughter names. 

"You're a green-eyed space alien, Grace Alien," Elena insists. 

"Daddy!" Grace sobs. "I not a alien!"

Haytham is sure Shay and Aveline would know what to do here. Unfortunately, they're out on a "date" right now. Haytham is pretty sure that's code for sneaking off and having sex somewhere semi-public. Not that he begrudges them their time together, never, but he's not exactly the world's best parent, and right now he feels he's in over his head. 

"She put Susan in Geraldine's oven," Elena sulks, holding up the beleaguered doll. 

"Hide and seek," Grace explains, opening and closing the toy oven. 

"Grandpa, she's _always_ hiding my things!" Elena whines. 

Grace smiles up at Elena, all thought of being called names gone from her mind. "Elena pway wif me!"

Elena heaves a huge sigh. "Grandpa."

Haytham rubs his eyes. What is he supposed to do here? He crouches down to Grace's eye level. "Grace, don't take Elena's things without asking." Grace puts on her "cute" face, and Haytham tries mightily to resist how adorable his daughter is. "I mean it," he tells her. "No hide and seek without asking first." He then stands up, and leans down to Elena's level. "And no calling Grace names. She has no control over the color of her eyes."

Elena scowls. "But she's so annoying and she _can_ control that!"

Haytham hugs Elena, because he thinks she really needs it and he's starting to develop a sense of when people need hugs. "She's little and she doesn’t know how not to be annoying."

"I can _tell_ her how not to be annoying," Elena grumbles. "Like not taking my stuff, and not doing _that._ " Grace is happily yanking on the curtains. 

"Grace, stop that!" Haytham calls, running to the window just as Grace tries to swing on the curtains and the whole curtain rod falls. Haytham reminds himself that he is a Templar Grand Master and more than a match for his child. 

When she's this small, anyway.


	31. Chapter 31

"If you don't mind," Desmond huffs, running down the corridor, "we can just pretend each other doesn't exist, okay? Doesn't...don't...whichever."

Adéwalé snorts. "Fine time for my madness not to believe in _me_."

"Well, if you hadn't noticed," and Desmond ducks into a roll-and-scoot maneuver, barely avoiding being shot in the back, "I'm a little busy at the moment." Another bullet flies through Adéwalé, and Desmond stares, stunned, then gets up and resumes running. It's taking too much effort, and he looks back to see Adéwalé simply standing there, being dragged along by the mysterious forces at work on visitors.

As interesting as that is, Desmond can't afford it right now. "Hey!" he whispers. "Can you, you know, try to keep up?"

"This isn't real," Adéwalé says flatly. "Why bother?"

"It's going to be _very_ real if I get shot!" Desmond practically screams. He can't believe _he_ was this annoying at some point.

Adéwalé crosses his arms stubbornly. "If a figment of the imagination gets shot by an imaginary bullet, does that mean the figment stops appearing?"

"Yes!" Desmond tries to muffle his angry shout with only partial success. "I'll stop appearing because I'll be _dead_!"

"Ah, but if you were never truly alive or real to begin with..."

"Stop talking philosophy with me," Desmond groans. "Please, just work with me here, and I promise I won't insist that I'm real anymore. Just pretend for a little bit that I exist and that these guys chasing me exist. Just until I can get to safety." He ducks around a corner.

Adéwalé heaves a sigh, then flicks his eyes to the side. "If you were real, you could kill the two coming towards you. Of course," he adds reflectively, "if you weren't, I could _imagine_ you killing them just as easily..."

"Save it for a discussion with Altaïr," Desmond mutters, preparing to strike.

"They are almost upon you," Adéwalé warns reluctantly.

Desmond body-slams the first as he comes around the corner, reaching to slit the throat of the second as Desmond and the first one fall. He barely has time to swing his stump to deflect the first one's gun before it fires, and then manages to kill him, too. He stands up, shaky. "Thanks, Adéwalé."

"There were two more of you hallucinations," Adéwalé reports. "They went the other way back there."

"Why help me if I'm not real?" Desmond can't resist asking as he brushes himself off.

"Better to help an imaginary Assassin than his hallucinatory enemies," Adéwalé tells him shortly. "You had better start moving."

"Are you going to let me?" Desmond asks point-blank.

Adéwalé sighs. "I suppose I can _walk_ through my madness."

"That's all I'm asking," Desmond tells him.

"Then I shall humor you," Adéwalé says, sighing again in a very long-suffering way as he follows Desmond.


	32. Chapter 32

Haytham finds Connor, head in hands, sitting on his bed, looking totally distraught. Well, as distraught as Connor ever looks. Haytham knows Connor's just come back from a long mission, and judging by his slightly creased forehead and compressed lips, it did not go well. "Care to talk, son?" he offers awkwardly.

"No." Connor's voice starts firm, but then wavers.

"Assassin business?"

"Personal business."

This is a new one, then. "Personal?" He didn't know Connor had any personal business outside of the Assassins.

Connor sighs. "I was...looking for something."

"And you found nothing?"

"I found it was much simpler than I had hoped."

"Simpler?"

Connor heaves another sigh. "Have you heard that Native women are disappearing?"

Haytham frowns. "No."

Connor looks up and glares at his father. "That is part of the problem. Nobody cares because nobody knows."

Haytham thinks for a minute. "Where are they disappearing from?"

Connor waves a hand vaguely. "Canada. All over. Native women of all different nations. I had hoped that there was some conspiracy."

Haytham blinks. "Hoped?"

Connor smiles without humor. "A conspiracy has a leader, and a leader can be killed."

"A leader like me, you mean."

Connor looks up, shocked. "No, Father, I had never thought you nor Shay had anything to do with this matter. You are too...no, I thought maybe Abstergo, but no." His voice is bitter. "The problem is both smaller and larger than that. Smaller--it seems to be the work of individuals, most likely the women's white husbands or boyfriends. Larger, in that society at large condones it, and shapes these men's attitudes, so that they feel they can get away with murder. And they do, because it is not investigated." He shakes his head. "And the disgusting things that people say...I had thought two centuries would enlighten your people about my people, but it does not seem to have happened."

Haytham considers for a long moment. "So you say this is not Assassin business?"

Connor looks up at him blankly. "Not officially."

Haytham smiles tightly. "Then we can work together. How can I help you?"

Connor snorts. "There are over a thousand cases to be solved. Do you know any way to get people moving on that? We cannot solve them all. And--and--it is not enough to solve the cases, if nobody knows of the problem. If nobody cares. A whole society needs to be educated, and they do not want to be. There is this, this committee, and you should see what people say about--"

"Connor, please, Templars love to mold society. Let me get my people on the problem."

"Why would you help me, Father? How does this benefit your Order?"

Haytham scoffs. "How doesn't it? A stable society promotes peace and order; a society turned against itself wastes its resources on chaos. And it is, as you say, personal business." He shakes his head. "These men--do you see? I, too, am a white man in love with a native woman, and yet I would never have chosen to hurt her. It offends me that _they_ did so."

Connor holds his father's gaze for a long minute, then nods. "Very well. Let me show you what I have learned."


	33. Chapter 33

Jenny could get used to this little family, she thinks. Her father's not quite what she expected, neither the gentleman she wants him to be nor the wastrel her grandfather warned her of, but he's...well... _fun_. And Anne, well, Anne will never be a replacement for Jenny's mother, but Anne is what Elena calls "cool". Living with the two of them, in the exotic jungle of Inagua, is like an adventure that doesn't end.

Some parts of the adventure are frankly a bit scary, like Father's friends who all have knives strapped to their arms, or the lizards that run across Jenny's bed sometimes at night, monstrous in the candlelight.

Some parts are sad, like when Jenny remembers her mother's last days, or when Father and Anne hold each other and cry about their friend Mary.

But most of the adventure is fun: running around the jungle, picking delicious fruits right off the tree, or playing with Anne and Father, and Jenny's visitors too, of course.

Right now, Jenny's managed, with her sister Jacob's help, to get into a tree branch so high she thinks she'll faint from sheer exhilaration. She looks over at Jacob, trying to figure out how old her sister is. Her hair is all gray, so she must be really, really old. Thirty at _least_. "Father will never believe I climbed this high!" Jenny tells her.

Jacob grins. "Then let's make sure he sees you up here when he comes seeking."

"Oh, it's not his turn to look for me," Jenny informs her. "It's Anne's."

"Anne?" Jacob asks sharply. "Anne Bonny? Irish Anne?"

Jenny nods, swinging her legs. "That's her! Why?"

Jacob sighs. "It's been a long time since she...since I saw her, is all."

Jenny chatters on about Anne, telling a long story that she's not sure Jacob is listening to. "...and he never knew that she'd bought the cakes at the market and she can't actually cook at all!"

Jacob smiles sadly. "I remember that. She's a terrible cook." She looks so forlorn that Jenny reaches out and hugs her, and they sit in the tree, waiting for Anne.


	34. Chapter 34

"How could I?" Connor asks Aveline quietly.

She looks in the direction of his gaze, where Haytham is sitting in a fort made of cushions with Geraldine and Grace. Geraldine is laughing, and Grace is just barely standing, holding on to Haytham's arm for support, her face alight with a huge smile. "All right," he says, "Now we have to defend our fort against Desmond and Elena."

"That's right!" Geraldine chirps. "Desmond and 'Lena!"

Grace loses her balance and her diapered rear hits the floor, and she begins to wail. Instantly, Haytham holds her close and kisses her forehead.

Connor sighs, and Aveline pats his shoulder. "You did what you thought was right."

"No, I did not. I did what I thought I _had_ to do. There is a difference."

"I know," she tells him, "and I understand."

"Do you?" Connor asks, turning to face her. "I had thought, with you...being... _with_ him..."

"Oh, Connor," Aveline chuckles. "That's what this is about?"

He blushes, but soldiers on. "You love him, do you not? And I killed him."

She smiles. "Yes, I love him, but as I said, I can appreciate your side as well." She takes Connor's hand and frowns. "For I have done much the same, but worse. After all, my stepmother raised me for many years, and gave every sign of loving me as if I were her own daughter. And Haytham, though you killed him, is not lost to us, and never truly was, so long as we visited. Madeleine...has not been so lucky." She frowns thoughtfully.

Connor stares at his father, who is holding Geraldine on his shoulders as a lookout for their fort. "He is...kinder than ever I knew him. Is this your doing, and Shay's? Or is it Grace's, and Desmond's? Perhaps when I condemned him for his failures as a father it was really I who failed as a son."

Aveline tilts her head, considering him. "He's proud of you, you know. He gets awkward around you because...well, perhaps he'd better tell you himself."

"No, Aveline, that's not--" Connor begins, but she's already calling out.

"Girls, make room for Connor, he's going to join you in there."

Geraldine giggles and climbs down into Haytham's lap. "Okay, Connor," she singsongs.

"What? Aveline, no!" Connor protests.

"Connor, yes!" she answers. "Haytham, Connor needs to hear what you told Shay about him last night."

Haytham flushes and holds Geraldine and Grace tightly as if they can protect him from emotional conversations. "Are you sure?" he asks.

Aveline smiles serenely. "I'm sure."

Haytham continues to harrumph to himself as he rearranges the cushions to make room for Connor in the fort.

Connor steps carefully in, and sits down, Grace crawling immediately into his lap.

"So, ah, son," Haytham begins. "Shay and I were talking..." and he turns beet red. Connor looks fixedly at Grace's tiny tan ears and Haytham finally continues. "I said that I was so glad that you did not still oppose us, since you are one of the strongest and cleverest of all Assassins. And that I'm proud of you, and if Grace grows up with even half your courage and wisdom I'll be enormously pleased." Haytham clears his throat. "That's what I--ack!"

Desmond and Elena, hidden under a blanket, fling themselves at the fort, laughing. "No fair!" Elena squeals. "You have _four_ people!" She's trying to tickle Haytham and Geraldine at the same time.

"We'll just have to tickle them harder," Desmond tells her. But Haytham sweeps them all into his arms, Desmond, Connor, Elena, Grace, and Geraldine, and holds them close.

"Grandpa," Elena complains, "you're supposed to laugh and tickle us back."

"I'm sorry," Haytham apologizes, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "I just wanted to hug my children and my granddaughter."

And when Edward happens to wander through the room and attaches himself to the hug pile, Haytham doesn't even complain.

Aveline smiles at them all.


	35. Chapter 35

"No, don't get up," Aveline murmurs, throwing an arm around Haytham. "It's too early."

He gently extracts himself from her grasp. "I'm not an Assassin that can sleep all morning," he remonstrates.

"No, you're the Grand Master of the halfway decent Templars," she tells him, snaking her arm around him again. " _You_ get to decide when Templars should wake up." She nuzzles his neck.

Shay props himself up on an elbow, watching them through near-constant yawns. "What time is it, sir?"

Aveline answers, "Time to go back to sleep," as Haytham insists, "Time to wake up."

Shay sighs. "Don't make me choose which of you to listen to. Otherwise I'll go sleep on the couch and obey neither of you."

Aveline laughs, and Haytham humphs. "Shay, I'm very disappointed in you. I had hoped--"

Shay holds up a hand to forestall Haytham. "Sir, I'm hardly the only man ever to have his wife and his boss telling him different things to do. But I'll not choose one of you over the other. I can't. I swore two oaths, as a Templar and as a husband. Don't make me break one in favor of the other."

Haytham mutters under his breath, then scoots closer to Aveline, wrapping his arm around her and Shay. "Very well, we can sleep a while longer."

Shay pulls the two of them closer, and Aveline makes herself comfortable. They all close their eyes.

And then Grace begins to cry.

Aveline laughs. "And parenthood spoils my rhetorical victory. Haytham, could you be a darling Grand Master and fetch her?"

Haytham only loses a moment to indignant shock before he gets up, muttering about his title being misused.


	36. Chapter 36

The Templars, the _true_ Templars as Haytham always thinks of them, are due to gather in half an hour, and Haytham has a problem.

He can't stop kissing Shay.

He's not sure what the women and men of this modern time would say if they found him here, in the tiny kitchen of the basement apartment they're using as a safehouse, pressed up against the wall with Shay's knee between his legs, their lips fastened hungrily to each other's. It's just such a welcome change not to have _people_ around. Sure, they're the people Haytham and Shay care most about, but they happen to all be Assassins or small children. There's privacy, of course, in the bedroom, but there's something exciting about not seeing the same four walls while making out.

Haytham's hand creeps up Shay's thigh, and Shay murmurs, "Yes, _sir_ ," between kisses.

"You don't have to call me 'sir', you know," Haytham gasps. Oh, if only they had a little more time...

"You're the Grand Master," Shay insists, tracing kisses along Haytham's jawline to his ear.

"Yes, but...in the bedroom, or, well, when we're--" Haytham stifles a cry of pleasure, feeling Shay's teeth on his ear. "--doing _this_ , Shay, wherever we are, we're equals. Lovers." He feels a bit self-conscious saying it, even though of course there's no other word for it, what he desperately wants to do and wishes they had the time for. "And I would like...I would like you to call me by name."

Shay pulls back to look him in the eye, then smiles, slowly, more of a smirk. " _Haytham_."

Haytham can't help the thrill that runs through him, hearing his name on Shay's lips in such a manner. "Yes, Shay?"

Shay reaches up to trace Haytham's lips with a shaking finger, and repeats, "Haytham," much more tenderly. And then he grins. "And tonight you'll hear your name on my lips again when--" and he describes, in detail, exactly what he'd like to do.

Haytham blushes. "I look forward to it."


	37. Chapter 37

"All right, let me get this straight," Evie announces, startling Connor out of his deep concentration. Rebecca's been teaching him how to hack computers, and he's practicing on an Abstergo server.

"Get what straight?" he asks, blinking away the eyestrain.

"Your father is Haytham Kenway, right?"

"Yes," he admits, "but you knew that."

"And Desmond also calls Haytham _his_ father, correct?"

"That is indeed true. And Desmond is a very good son to him. Better than I am."

"So you and Desmond are, what, brothers?"

Connor blinks, and smiles uncertainly. "I suppose in a sense we are. Although he is an Assassin, so in that sense we are brothers as well."

"And let's just say hypothetically that Desmond and I could marry," Evie says with a grin. "We'd be brother- and sister-in-law, you and I, wouldn't we?"

Connor chuckles. "I suppose we would. Although, again, we are both Assassins, so we are Brother and Sister anyway." And there's the matter of Henry, but Connor does not have so firm an opinion on the matter as Aveline does, so he says nothing.

"Yes, but this is so exciting! And Haytham would be my father-in-law, and Edward my grandfather-in-law!" She goes so far as to clap her hands together, and Connor smiles tolerantly.

"I did not ever imagine people _wanting_ to be part of my family." He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and mostly succeeds. Evie doesn't seem to notice.

"The Kenway family and the Frye family, joined by marriage. Can you even imagine?"

Connor can't bear to burst her bubble by pointing out that she _can't_ marry Desmond. Or she could, he supposes, but he has no idea how well a marriage where the spouses can only visit each other would work. Shay and Aveline didn't even get married until after they'd gotten together in person, after all. Instead, he says honestly, "No, I cannot," and lets her carry on.


	38. Chapter 38

It begins innocently enough.

"Sir, I'd like to take this mission," Shay offers.

Haytham frowns. "Absolutely not," he says briskly. "I need your skills here."

Shay frowns and says nothing as Haytham assigns another Templar, a burly man named David, to destroy the Abstergo facility and kill anyone necessary. But that night, after the meeting, Shay approaches Haytham, arms crossed. "You don't think I can do it, do you?"

Haytham looks up at him, shocked. "Shay, it's dangerous. And I need you here."

Shay scowls. "And you think David can handle it better than I can, _sir_?"

Haytham gapes for a moment. "No, that's not it."

"Then what _is_ it, _sir_?" Shay practically spits.

"I...I..." Haytham's mouth works but no words come out for a long minute. "Listen, Shay, I..." He stares at his hands, as if they have the answer to his predicament.

"I understand," Shay says coldly, and stalks off.

Haytham stares at his retreating back, then curses. They'd driven to the meeting in the same car, and Shay is currently zooming off in it. Haytham has to walk, and then he catches a bus, riding across town before he gets off and calls Connor to pick him up. How undignified for the Grand Master, he thinks, taking public transportation and then begging his Assassin son for a ride.

At the safehouse, Shay is distant and Aveline puzzled, and Haytham makes an excuse to go to bed early, alone.

The next morning, Shay mechanically spoons Frosted Flakes into his mouth while Grace writes random letters in the crossword puzzle of Altaïr's newspaper, humming to herself. The clues are too hard for her (and for Shay, who still knows very little about this century's celebrities) so she fills in made-up words and then colors in the comics. Haytham brings his plate and sits next to Shay, who wrinkles his nose at the microwave hash browns and canned sardines.

"Listen, Shay," Haytham says in an undertone, acutely aware that Altaïr is not really reading the sports page. "What you must realize is that... that I..." Haytham's words stick in his throat and he looks at his hands.

Shay sighs. "It's all right. You don't think I'm competent enough, you never do. You don't have to say it."

"That's not it at all!" Haytham protests.

Shay rolls his eyes. "Then what _is_ the reason?"

"Because you...well, because I..." Haytham trails off.

Shay scoffs, "Save it," and dumps his bowl in the sink, stomping out.

"What was that?" Aveline asks, scuffing her fuzzy bunny slippers as she enters the kitchen just as Shay leaves.

"Papa and Daddy are mad at each other," Grace reports, coloring a cat purple.

"No, we're not," Haytham insists.

But as the days wear on, he grows increasingly frustrated with Shay's anger and resentment. Aveline keeps pressing both of them for details, and sighing and shaking her head when neither one of them is forthcoming. 

Haytham sleeps on the twin bed in Edward's room every night.


	39. Chapter 39

Haytham picks at his low-sodium microwave dinner apathetically. "Could someone please pass the salt?" he asks, rather desperately.

Shay, sitting by the saltshaker, mutters to himself, ignoring Haytham until Ezio sighs and asks, "Shay, can you pass the salt?" Shay passes the salt to Ezio, who rolls his eyes and passes it on to Haytham. Shay scowls and viciously attacks his baked potato.

* * *

Lucy excuses herself from the movie, which Elena happily pauses, and goes to the bathroom. On the way back, she runs into Aveline, literally, making her drop a plate of spaghetti.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Aveline apologizes, pressing a hand to her mouth in horror at the sight of Lucy's good work skirt now indelibly spotted with tomato sauce.

"It's okay," Lucy assures her, even though it really isn't. "If an Assassin had to assault me, I'm just glad it was only with food." She clears her throat awkwardly, and just as Aveline begins to walk to the kitchen to get paper towels, Lucy calls her back. "Is something...going on between Haytham and Shay?"

"Define 'something'," Aveline says with a laugh.

Lucy forces a laugh too. "I mean, I assume they're sleeping together..." She waits for Aveline's amused nod, then continues. "But lately, ah, it seems like there's some problem...? I mean they won't look at each other in our Templar meetings, and everything one of them says, the other argues with. But without actually talking to each other, you know."

Aveline sighs. "Yes, unfortunately, I do know. I was wondering what started it, actually."

Lucy shrugs. "Last week, they had a disagreement over, uh, a potential course of action, let's say."

Aveline raises a hand. "No need for the details; I understand it's Templar business."

"I mean, the week before I saw them kissing when I got there. So I think everything was okay then." Lucy laughs nervously. "Although I think Haytham would die if he knew that I saw that."

Aveline hums thoughtfully. "They really are very fond of each other, you know. It would be a shame for something small to ruin that."

Lucy clears her throat, then asks in a small voice, "Is there, uh, something between you and Haytham too?"

Aveline smiles. "Yes, there is something..." She rolls her eyes and adds, "and right now they're _both_ getting on my nerves."

"Heh heh," Lucy laughs awkwardly, "well, we can't have that."

"Have you ever been in a situation like this?" Aveline asks.

Yes, Lucy thinks, but says nothing, instead rubbing the scar across her stomach, the mark of Desmond's blade. She has no advice that could help Aveline, and never will.

"Let me think about this," Aveline says. "and let's see if we can help them stop being so silly."

* * *

Edward whispers to Aveline, "Please, you've got to solve this. What if I wanted to entertain Ezio in my bedroom once in a while? Haytham ruins the mood."

Aveline smiles tolerantly. "And your son's happiness is of no concern to you?"

Edward nods. "Well, that too, but _Ezio_."

Aveline rolls her eyes. "I've got a plan. One where neither you nor I have to listen to any more all-night-long complaints."

* * *

"Connor," Haytham says with a scowl. "I saw you were talking to Shay."

"Yes," Connor acknowledges, "Shay and I have been close friends for many years, after all."

"Did he mention anything about me?" Haytham presses.

Connor sighs and closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "No, Father, we only discussed Grace's upcoming birthday."

"Nothing about me at all?"

"Not a word," Connor promises.

" _Well_ ," Haytham says, and harrumphs. Connor sighs and goes back to watering his potted plants.

* * *

"He never lets me go on any of the dangerous missions," Shay complains, punching Jacob in the stomach.

Jacob lets out a little 'oof' and manages to block Shay's follow-up punch. "When you train, you train hard."

"That's the thing," Shay says, standing still for a moment, fists up to block. "I do train hard. I know I can fight better than any of the other Templars. But Haytham doesn't believe in me."

Jacob throws a punch, gets blocked, feints, and manages to catch Shay on the ear. "I don't know if it's that..."

Shay shakes his head, either in disagreement or in pain. "He just doesn't think I'm good enough. Not a good enough fighter, not a good enough Templar. Just good enough to warm his bed." He blinks back tears.

Jacob laughs uneasily. "I'm sure that's not the case."

Shay snorts. "Since when are you suddenly best friends with Haytham?"


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the conclusion of the last two chapters.

The next Templar meeting is particularly awkward. David's arm is in a sling and he's pale from blood loss, and Shay keeps looking meaningfully at him and then at Haytham. Lucy can't meet anyone's eyes but just stares at the table. This is just as awful as her time with the Assassins, waiting to betray them. Briefly, she wonders if they'd take her in if Haytham throws her out of the Templars tonight. Probably not.

Haytham covers the important business (their financial manipulations, David's mission, Lucy's report on the sorry state of education "reform", other missions currently in progress) and then he concludes, "Well, if that's all, then--"

"No, it's not," Lucy interrupts. "I have a few questions about something, Grand Master Kenway."

Haytham looks surprised, but gestures for her to go on. Lucy clears her throat. "Grand Master, is it true you didn't assign Master Cormac to the New York mission because you couldn't stand the thought that he might get hurt or killed?"

Shay breaks in with, "I'd have been fine!"

Haytham raises his voice. "I hardly think that topic--"

Lucy interrupts again, her fingernails cutting into the palms of her hands clenched in terror. "Grand Master, is it true that you were so worried because you love him dearly and couldn't imagine life without him?"

Haytham flushes dark red. "Miss Stillman..." he begins, trailing off as he realizes everyone is staring at him, including Shay.

"Well, sir?" Shay asks in a carefully neutral tone. "Is it true?"

Haytham stumbles over his words. "I...I...yes, it's true," he admits. "I do, I _love_ you, Shay. I truly do. And I knew it would be dangerous, and I could only send one person, and I couldn't _bear_ the thought that I might lose you. That you'd be gone and it would be all my fault. And not only _I_ would lose you, but Aveline, and Geraldine, and Grace, and everyone else. How could I look in their eyes knowing it was my fault you'd be dead?" He looks to the Templars on either side of the table and says quietly, "So now you all know my secret. I'm desperately in love with Shay Cormac." He braces himself for their reactions--Desmond had said it was accepted in this time, but he's not sure how true that is.

"Thought something was going on," says the woman to Lucy's left.

"Yeah, I kept getting hits on my gaydar," another woman chimes in, tapping the side of her head, "but I thought it was David."

"It _was_ me," David points out, "but I guess it was them, too."

“Excuse me,” Shay breaks in, “but I believe the term is ‘bisexual’.”

There's some scattered laughter and then someone starts chanting, "Kiss, kiss, kiss!" and soon everyone joins in, clapping and stamping their feet.

Shay looks at them all, at their smiles, as if he can't quite believe his eyes. Across the table, Haytham is also staring, a disbelieving and somehow vulnerable look on his face. Suddenly, it's been far too long for Shay's liking since he last kissed Haytham, and all the hurt and resentment that he's felt in the last couple of weeks, that's been building up for years, it all vanishes. All he can focus on is Haytham, and he vaults over the table to his side, then takes him in his arms and kisses him soundly.

Everyone cheers and claps, although it turns into good-natured jeers as the kiss lingers. They finally break apart to breathe, and Haytham murmurs, "I do love you. That was what I kept trying to tell you, you know."

Shay grins. "I should have realized. Sorry I've been a total arse to you these past weeks. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course I can," Haytham begins, but is interrupted by someone playing slow, romantic music on their phone. " _Really_?!" he demands, looking around for the source of the quickly silenced music. The other Templars are barely smothering their laughter, and he shakes his head in disbelief at them and kisses Shay again. "I love you," he tells his loyal friend, his handsome lover.

"And I love you, _sir_ ," Shay tells him in return, grinning broadly. He looks around at the other Templars, at their acceptance and their undiminished respect. "What're you looking at?" he demands. "Can't a fellow kiss the Grand Master without everyone staring?"

"Aren't you married, Master Cormac?" someone asks. "Does she know?"

Shay laughs. "This was all her idea in the first place!"

Haytham is so relieved that he can't stop smiling, can't stop catching Shay's eyes, can't look anywhere else even if he wanted to. "I always thought it was." He nestles into Shay's arms, just a small movement that means an infinite amount to Shay. "Ah, the meeting is adjourned," he adds briskly, resting his head self-consciously on Shay's shoulder.

One by one, the others trickle out, most making ribald comments that make Haytham blush (but mostly, they sound like very good ideas to Shay.) At last, only Lucy's left.

"I thought you were sure to throw me out after today," she tells Haytham.

"And I might have, once," Haytham tells her, squeezing Shay's hand. "But I try to be less emotionally stupid these days."

Shay laughs, then looks guilty as Haytham looks up and glares at him. "What? I was just thinking of how it's taken centuries to get you to _this_ point."

Haytham huffs. "I haven't been _alive_ for all those centuries, you know." He grins, suddenly. "Besides, I remember how foolish you were over Aveline, so long ago."

"It was her idea," Lucy tells them. "The things I said. I mean, it was my idea but her words. Oh, and she also said that, before you, ah, physically express your reconciliation, you should call her and let her know you'll be delayed."

Shay laughs nervously and meets Haytham's eyes. "That is, if you want to--I mean, maybe we're not at that--"

Haytham silences him with a kiss, then tells him, "You'd better call her. Ah, Miss Stillman, you might want to leave now. I doubt you want to see where this is about to go." His hands are under Shay's coat, stroking his chest, drifting to his belt buckle.

"Right, uh, have fun," Lucy says awkwardly, and flees.


	41. Chapter 41

Adéwalé never understands why his madness takes the form it does. He's familiar by now with the recurring phantoms of his mind: long-dead Assassins, Edward (who now, if the letter Ah Tabai recently got from England and forwarded on is to be believed, counts among the dead Assassins), various people who are inexplicably proud to be descendants of Edward's, assorted French and English Assassins who claim to be from the future, and the Irish man who keeps hiding from him. He's familiar with the strangely impersonal safehouses where most of them live, the grimy buildings of London, the lovely views of France.

But he will never get used to his insanity. Even if, occasionally, it's very mundane. Like now, where Edward (his feet bare and very smelly) and Ezio and Jacob are lounging on pillows around a cat.

Adéwalé has to blink a few times to make sure. Yes, that's a cat, and a small girl--Adéwalé thinks that, in the intricacies of his madness, she's the imaginary daughter of the figment named Desmond. Elena, he thinks. She's holding a small metal tube, and shrieking with laughter as the cat pounces on a mysterious red light on the floor. "Jacob!" she squeals. "Make her go around in circles again!" Jacob does nothing but laugh uneasily; Elena moves her hand and the light spirals across the floor, followed by the cat.

"Look who's here," Ezio says, grinning, and Edward looks up.

"Adé! Dear friend. Tell these silly fools that cats are fun."

"I didn't say they weren't fun," Ezio corrects, moving his foot away as the cat gets too close.

"Jacob likes them," Elena insists.

"No, I don't," objects Jacob, wiping his nose. "I'm allergic."

"Not you, silly, the other Jacob," Edward corrects him. "My daughter."

"You have a daughter named Jacob?" Adéwalé asks, confused.

"Kidd's daughter," Edward tells him, his face suddenly shadowed. He takes a deep breath and blatantly pastes a smile back on. "Hey, Jacob. This here's Adéwalé, a friend of your mother."

" _My_ mother?" asks Jacob, confused.

Ezio laughs. "The other one again."

Elena waves her hand back and forth quickly, and the cat responds with a similar frenzy. "Jacob says really? She wants to meet him." She hands the tube to Ezio and looks from him to Edward. "Can she meet him?"

Edward nods, and something _shifts_ around Adéwalé--

\--he looks around and realizes that he's sitting where Edward was, wearing Edward's strange clothes, and his bare feet are fair-skinned, as are his hands. Even the edges of his vision are lighter. Somehow...he's Edward.

"Edward," he asks with a tired sigh. "What is this madness?"

"It's no madness," Elena tells him. Only her accent's changed, the way she's sitting is different, everything about her is different except how she looks. "It's _visiting_."

Adéwalé knows from the emphasis she places on the word that she means the strange form of insanity that has overtaken his life. "And you are?"

"Jacob Kidd," she tells him. "Bastard son of James Kidd, bastard son of William Kidd. Or so I say."

"Your mother recruited me to the Assassins," Adéwalé tells her respectfully. Because, why not? If his diseased brain makes him think he's talking to Kidd's daughter, he might as well say the things he's been wishing to tell her. "She saw in me more than a mere pirate, and I will ever be grateful to her for her wisdom and her faith in me." He grins. "She was also a very good kisser."

Edward hits his forehead with the heel of his palm. "That's right, you _did_ kiss her! Not you too!"

The girl, Jacob, is rolling her eyes. "That's hardly what I needed to hear about my mother!"

Adéwalé smiles faintly. "She was smart, and strong, and brave, and among the best of all Assassins. She inspired me, and all I am today is down to her. If she had done nothing else but recruit Edward and me, that would be enough. But she did so much more. She made the pirates more than just thieves, Assassins more than just killers, and she made her beloved more than just a pretty barmaid."

She blinks away tears. "She...she loved Anne, then?"

Adéwalé nods. "She was smitten. She'd go into the most dangerous jungle to get Anne new flowers for her hair--was that also something you hardly wanted to know about your mother?"

"No," she says, wiping a tear off her cheek. "That's just what I needed to hear."

"Thanks, Adé," Edward says hoarsely. "It's good to know more even if we can't still have her around..." He trails off, frowning despondently.

"Aye, thank you much, Master Adéwalé," and it's beyond strange to hear a little girl's voice so full of mature grief.

Adéwalé shifts uncomfortably in Edward's skin as everyone falls into an awkward silence broken by girlish giggles. "Look at Lion!" Elena squeals, evidently back in her own body. The cat is chasing a sunbeam, and Adéwalé smiles. He's always been fond of animals, and has picked up from Edward the bad habits of petting every dog and cat he comes across, and carrying around a handful of cracked corn for stray chickens. At least if his mind is tormenting him with hallucinations, this one's not so bad, he thinks, blinking with surprise as he finds himself in his own body again.

Well. It had been strange being Edward, and he can't deny that he wouldn't mind, some days, having his fellow Assassin's fair skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. To be able to make greater change happen in the world, to have no worry of further enslavement, to walk around any city in the world and have everyone treat him as a person...it would be a welcome change.

His ruminations are broken by laughter, and he looks up to find Ezio waving the metal cylinder around, and the cat going absolutely mad over the mysterious red light. Ezio sees him looking, and grins. "Here, you try." He passes over the cylinder, which Adéwalé turns over in his hand, puzzled. Ezio instructs him on how to hold it and press the little knob on the side.

"And don't aim it at your eyes," Jacob adds in the tone of someone who's been told something a hundred times and still had to check it out for himself.

Adéwalé finds the light easy to control, if a bit small for his large hands, and within a minute he's gotten the cat to pounce on Edward's bare, smelly toes.

"Adé!" Edward exclaims in tones of utter betrayal. "She has Hidden Blades in her paws, you know!"

Something about Edward's injured innocence, the cat attacking his feet, and the sheer impossibility of this all sparks laughter in Adéwalé, and he guffaws until his hallucinations appear quite worried. It's the first time they've been anything to him besides frightening harbingers of utter insanity, and he's sure it's a function of his growing madness, but the phantoms almost feel like friends tonight.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some snippets of daily life in the safehouse packed with people.

"Look! It's Lion!" Elena announces, shoving Haytham’s phone in Clay's face and pressing play on the video. On the tiny screen, Lion bats at a feather to the accompaniment of Elena’s excited squeals.

Clay holds up his hands, trying to get the phone to a distance where he can see it. Or not, maybe. "Elena, I've told you, I don’t like cat videos."

"But it's _Lion_ ," she protests.

"Still a cat. Still a video."

* * *

"Who on Earth bought fifteen cans of sardines in mustard sauce?" Shaun demands, rummaging through the safehouse's minimal pantry. "Or is this a Templar plot?"

"Yes," Connor assures him, "you can blame my father for that one."

Shaun curls his lip. "I hope you don't think all English people have such poor taste. And what would we need with five chocolate cake mixes?" He waves a box for emphasis.

Connor sighs. "Father again."

Shaun shakes his head. "Next time, we send an Assassin to go shopping. And not your grandfather, either. I still remember the marshmallow fluff incident."

* * *

Edward elbows Clay out of the way as Connor comes in with the mail. "Is there something for me?"

Clay rubs his side, wincing. "You act like it's Christmas," he complains as Edward reaches for an Amazon box.

"I just can't wait to unwrap my package," Edward says, tearing open the box.

Clay makes a face. "We've talked about the word 'package' and its other meaning nowadays, haven't we?"

"What? Yeah, sure, sure," Edward answers, flipping through the pages of the book within.

"What is an adult coloring book," Connor asks, "and why is it full of cursing?"

"Edward, you seriously bought a coloring book?" Clay groans.

Edward opens the book and shows Connor. "See, it's cute pictures of dogs and cats that say 'Fuck everything' and the like. It's supposed to relieve stress. I ordered some pencils in different colors to color it in, too!" He waves a package of expensive colored pencils. "That way I can color in the picture, and then when it's done, I'll feel less stressed out and I'll have a cute cat picture!"

"That says 'asshole'," Clay points out.

Edward grins. "I know, that's the best part."

Connor sighs. "Do not, I repeat, do _not_ let Elena near that book."

* * *

"I'm the mom and you're the baby," Geraldine announces.

Elena sighs. "But I don't want to be the baby."

"You're the baby," Geraldine insists.

"All right, I'm the baby. Wah wah! Give me attention! Give me food!"

Geraldine hands her a toy bottle and smiles. "Now I'm gonna have Clay watch you while I go on a mission. A mission to catch Pokémon!"

"No you're not," Elena retorts. "I'm going to throw temper tantrums the entire time and make you come home early from your mission."

"That's not fair," Geraldine objects. "I only did that once. And I was a _baby_ then."

"So it's perfect for me, as the baby, to do," Elena gloats. "Wah wah wah! Wah wah wah!"

Geraldine sticks out her tongue. "You're a mean baby, Elena."


	43. Chapter 43

Jeanne doesn't know _why_ she feels so safe and happy with her papa, she just does. When he sits with her and she tucks herself under his arm, she feels perfectly at peace, just smelling her papa and feeling his heart beat under his layers of clothing and all his buckles.

As she grows up, she no longer fits under Shay's arm, but she never stops feeling safe, at peace, with him. Perhaps she transfers some of that feeling to the Templar Order; perhaps this drives her and Rory apart as much as anything else. Rory seems even more unsettled by Templars than he actually likes the Assassin brotherhood. But Jeanne can't help how she feels, and she can't help how Rory feels about their father.

When her father is gone, Jeanne throws herself into the order. It's the only thing that brings her that contentment. The Order, and her beloved, the Assassin Jacob Kidd. And she wishes she could have told her father of her true love, but just because he has visitors doesn't mean he can know about hers. Not yet. After his funeral, Jacob holds her close, and she sobs on her shoulder. The world is a colder and lonelier place without her papa.

At her lowest, when she's hurting inside and out, heart and body, she visits Elena. And Elena is young, small enough to fit under Shay's arm, and so Jeanne spends two hours in her favorite place in the world, crying with grief and guilt and wretched loneliness. She's vague about specifics, for good reasons of her own, but her father's arms are a world of comfort.

When the light is dimming in her eyes, when she knows her time is near, she makes one last visit. She sees her father playing with Elena, and with the little sisters Jeanne feels she barely knows, Geraldine and Grace. And Jeanne, so old and frail, pushes her way into Elena's body, stops the game they were playing, and clutches her papa close with every ounce of her fading strength. They sink to the ground together, and in Elena's body she climbs into his lap. "Papa," she sniffles, and he holds her close until she falls asleep.

When she returns to her body, when her visitors gather around her and her sweet Jacob holds her close, she wakes only enough to snuggle closer to Jacob and squeeze Rory's hand. She smiles contentedly, safe and at peace, and closes her eyes for the last time.


	44. Chapter 44

Haytham's not yet so used to sleeping in Aveline and Shay's bed for it to become routine to drop off into slumber after making love. Not _yet_ , but he hopes that he'll have the chance to grow accustomed to sleeping like this, pressed against Shay's sweaty back, or with an arm flung across Aveline, snug and secure in their shared afterglow. Because it's so wonderful, so amazing, this acceptance and this closeness. It's like something out of someone else's life, not what he would ever have imagined could one day be his.

His thoughts meander along this vein for some time, to the gentle rhythm of Aveline's breathing and Shay's light snores.

And then Shay begins to thrash and flail. "No--no--! No, no!" he mutters.

Haytham lies where he is for a moment, until Shay's elbow catches him in the stomach. He sits up, reaching for Shay's shoulder, to shake him out of his nightmare--

Aveline catches him by the wrist, lifting his hand away from her husband, who is mumbling incoherently. "Don't," she whispers. "If he wakes, he'll remember."

"Am I supposed to just let him suffer?" Haytham asks her in disbelief.

Shay cries out, "No, not the children, _no_!" and tosses his head frantically on the pillow.

Aveline wraps her arms around Shay and he stills for a moment, then resumes struggling. "That poor woman," he mumbles as tears leak down his face.

"How often does this happen?" Haytham asks, alarmed.

Aveline shrugs. "Once a week or so. I'm surprised you haven't seen it before." She clasps Shay's hands in hers, which seems to reduce his flailing.

"Isn't there anything I can do?" Haytham breathes, horrified. How has he never known that Shay's sleep is so disturbed?

"Hold him," Aveline directs him. "Hold him tight, and the dream should end before long. Once--" she blinks abruptly, "--once he's made it through Lisbon, the dream ends and he'll settle down. Believe me, I know." She wipes her eyes on Shay's shoulder.

"All right," Haytham tells her doubtfully, clutching Shay in his arms (as he'd held him an hour before, much more joyfully) and pinning his elbows to his side. Shay quivers and quakes in his grasp, muttering something, but the terrified look on his face vanishes. Aveline wraps both of them in her arms, and they lie like that until Shay's trembling resolves into gentle snores again.

"Thank you," she murmurs to Haytham, making herself comfortable again and drifting off to sleep. Haytham remains awake for some time, staring at Shay's ear in the soft moonlight, until he, too, falls asleep.


	45. Chapter 45

Altaïr is still unused to dressing so colorfully. For instance, today he's wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, one that Ezio says accentuates his biceps. But more to the point, it's utterly unremarkable in this time, as his white robes were in his first life. He can appreciate clinging to tradition, but clothing is meant for protection and concealment. He finds that Evie's robes, while flattering both her figure and his sense of history, mark her as unusual. She's unusually stealthy, which helps, but he thinks her robes diminish that, if but a little.

Then again, women's fashions of her time are so impractical and unhealthy as to be cruel, so he understands why she chooses not to wear them. Life is full of trade-offs, he supposes, especially for a woman. And he wonders what Maria would have made of the ridiculous things women are wearing in her homeland.

Enough of that. He can't afford to get bogged down in his own grief, not when he's trying to leap from roof to roof after Evie. She drops from a ledge onto the roof of a green carriage and neatly hops into the driver's seat, next to a green-clad Rook. "Hang on, Altaïr," she says briskly, clicking her tongue to get the horses moving.

"'oo's Altaïr?" the Rook beside her asks, respectfully. "New guy?"

"Nah," the answer comes from within the carriage. "'e's 'er guardian angel."

Altaïr snorts to himself as he clings to the roof of the carriage. Guardian angel. Not likely.

"I told you not to call them that!" Evie sounds both embarrassed and amused.

"Guardian angels are real, my mum prays to mine an' that's why I haven't gotten shot yet," the heavyset man in the carriage insists.

"That's a load of rubbish," a woman in the carriage says with a snort. "You _have_ got shot, three months ago."

"It were just a flesh wound," he reasons. "It could have been worse. Miss Frye's just lucky enough to see her guardian angels and talk to them. Like how she sees through walls."

"He's not a guardian angel," Evie mutters.

Altaïr snorts, then turns around-- "Blighters incoming. Left." Because of course he remembers who Evie's enemies are.

Evie swears and yanks the reins to the side, slamming into the Blighters' carriage as they try to sneak up beside the Rooks. As guns are drawn and bullets start flying, Altaïr distinctly hears, "I _told_ you she has a guardian angel!" from inside the carriage.


	46. Chapter 46

"What will you tell her?" Connor asks.

"About what?" Haytham is only half paying attention, dangling a toy dog in front of Grace, who laughs and reaches for it with chubby little hands.

"About her family. About how I killed you." Connor shifts from foot to foot, watching his father.

"Well, as I'm alive and walking and talking, I didn't think it was important to tell." Haytham ruffles Grace's curly hair and smiles adoringly at her.

"She should know someday. So she knows what not to do," Connor insists.

"If I was exceptionally cruel, I'd make _you_ tell her," Haytham tells him, sticking out his tongue, which makes Grace dissolve in giggles.

"Perhaps I deserve it," Connor says.

"Oh, don't _worry_ about it!" Haytham says, rolling his eyes. "She's nowhere near old enough to be told."

"But someday she will be," Connor warns. "And she deserves to know."

"You mean, she deserves to be burdened, knowing something terrible about her father and brother and being unable to do anything about it?" Haytham asks, his eyes glinting with anger. "Why would you do that to her?"

Connor crosses his arms and stalks away, and it's only when he's out of hearing range that he murmurs, "So she'll know what kind of person _I_ am."


	47. Chapter 47

Haytham is poring over the accounting program on his laptop when Shay walks in. As irregular and illegal as some of the true Templars' sources of income are, the computer asks no questions and just spits out columns of numbers. It is truly a miracle. That doesn't mean Haytham wouldn't rather keep his ledgers on paper, in code, as he used to. But the computer is a lot easier to lug from safehouse to safehouse, and paper ledgers could be left behind and found and decoded.

Shay clears his throat. "Sir," he begins.

"Please, Shay," Haytham interrupts, wincing. "You are allowed to call me by name, remember? We're more than close enough." He can feel his cheeks growing warm at the thought of just how close they had gotten the other night.

"All right, Haytham. I, um, that is, can I have a fairly large amount of money?"

Haytham blinks. "For what? Templar business?"

"No, sir. Personal. It's Aveline's birthday soon, you know, and I have the perfect present to get her, but I need a lot of money to get it."

Haytham chews his lip. "Any chance you'd help _me_ pick out a gift for her?"

Shay smiles. "You can put your name on it too. This will be the best gift anyone could ever give her, I promise. I wouldn't want to overshadow you in gift-giving."

"How much do you need?" Haytham asks, and Shay names a large but not impossible sum. "And you're sure this is something she'll really like?"

Shay nods vigorously. "She's been waiting hundreds of years for it."

Haytham logs in to one of their stolen accounts to siphon some money off of Abstergo.

* * *

The party is relatively small, this year; Altaïr and Desmond are away on missions, and Shaun and Rebecca are chasing down a Piece of Eden. Geraldine and Grace make a cake, and Shay painstakingly picks all the bits of eggshell out of the batter after Grace misunderstands "two whole eggs" in the recipe. Aveline smiles at every present she unwraps, perching Elena's shapeless knitted hat on her head. Finally, she's down to the envelope from Shay and Haytham, and she opens it with an air of mild puzzlement. There's a card inside, festooned with lacy hearts, and Haytham desperately hopes that whatever's inside is worth the price tag.

It's a folded up piece of paper, and Aveline opens it up, reading aloud, "'Roses are red, violets are blue, this always should've belonged to you'--what's this? A stock certificate? For...oh. Oh my." She's grinning fit to burst.

Shay beams. "It's 51% of the shares. So you are now the majority owner of Grandcor Coffee Trading, Incorporated. Like you always should have been."

Aveline blinks away tears. "It was never _mine_ , I ran it but I wasn't allowed to own it. It was my father's, then Gérald's, then Philippe's, but it was never _mine_."

"It is now," Shay tells her with a kiss. "I'll warn you, the stock trader laughed when I told him what I wanted. Apparently the company's not doing so well, that's why they were looking to sell."

"Doesn't matter," Aveline says with a steely smile. "I'll fix it up. And better it be in my hands than someone not in the family." She kisses Shay and then Haytham. "I assume the Templars bankrolled this? Never fear, I'll repay it with interest."

"It's a _gift_ ," Haytham objects.

"No, sexy lingerie is a _gift._ " (Grace screws up her face in disgust, and Geraldine puts her hands over her ears.) "A _loan_ of the money you can hardly afford, for the benefit of one Assassin, is gift enough."

"But--" Haytham begins, but Shay steps on his foot.

"Leave it be," Shay tells him quietly. Aveline smirks.

"Smart man," Edward mutters. "Unlike my son today."

Haytham rolls his eyes at his father, and has no intention of ever accepting a penny of repayment.


	48. Chapter 48

Haytham catches Aveline hanging a multicolored flag in one of the safehouse's few windows. "What are you doing?"

"Being supportive," she tells him happily.

"Supportive of what?" he asks, confused.

She smiles. "You, among others."

He frowns. "How's that flag supportive of me?"

Aveline sighs. "Are we going to have this discussion now? I suppose we must."

"What discussion?" Haytham is truly lost as Aveline sits down with him.

"Do you know what it represents?"

"I know that it makes our safehouse more distinctive, thereby decreasing its effectiveness as a safehouse."

Aveline scoffs. "But it's worth it. Haytham, remember when Ezio discovered the word 'bisexual'?"

He rolls his eyes. "Who could forget?"

She tells him gently, "It applies to you, too."

"What?! I am nothing like Ezio."

She laughs lightly. "Except that you've been with at least one man and at least one woman."

"Yes, but it's _Shay_ ," Haytham tries to explain. "His appeal is--"

"--extremely masculine," Aveline interrupts. "All those muscles! Mmm."

"Well, yes," Haytham agrees, blushing. "And he's, er, well endowed, I'll grant you that."

Aveline nods eagerly. "Very."

"But I am not like Ezio nor my father!"

"Doesn't matter," Aveline assures him. "The flag stands for you as well as them, whether or not you're so free with your affections as they are." She takes his hand. "It isn't shameful, you know, you and Shay. It doesn't make you less a man, nor him. All those old ideas that people used to have, in our first lives? They belong in the past." She gazes fondly at him. "And I for one thoroughly support you and Shay."

Haytham snorts. "And not just because you like to watch?"

Aveline laughs and kisses him. "Not just because I enjoy watching, but also because I'm happy that you've found love in each other's arms, as I've found it in yours."

"And I in yours," Haytham says, smiling, then considers thoughtfully. At length he asks, “Must I put a name to this aspect of my life? Or can I simply say that I am in love with Ziio, with you, with Shay, and leave it at that?”

Aveline nods. "You may say whatever you like, my dear, but take pride in how you love.” She smiles fondly at him. “This flag is for you, for Shay, for Edward and Ezio, for Jacob. For my son Rory, who was never interested in women but only in men. For my daughter Jeanne, whose eyes lingered only on women. For your sister who lived as a man, and for Edward's friend Kidd and the Fryes' friend Ned, who lived as men." She wraps her arms tenderly around him. "But mainly for you and Shay, because I love you."

He leans stiffly into her hug. "I wasn't aware I needed a flag."

She laughs. "You also weren't aware that you could be proud to love Shay, either. There's a lot that you're not aware of, dear Haytham." She says it so kindly that he can't take offense.


	49. Chapter 49

Not every night Edward and Ezio sleep in the same bed is spent in nonstop sexual escapades. Often, they simply stay up late talking. They hug, and they touch, and the line between that and outright sex gets kind of fuzzy some nights, but they proceed as they feel at any given time.

"I find myself in bookshops and libraries a lot," Ezio murmurs in Edward's ear, snaking his hand up the other man's shirt.

"Bookshops? Why?" Edward sounds genuinely perplexed as he wraps a leg around Ezio's. "Never had much use for 'em, myself."

"Sofia," Ezio explains, as if it's completely self-evident. "She owned a bookshop. And I keep hoping--foolish, I know--I'd meet someone, another Sofia or some such. Is that not ridiculous?" He kisses Edward's neck slowly, from jaw to collarbone.

Edward hums with pleasure, arching his neck to expose more of it to Ezio's mouth. "It's about as ridiculous as me at the docks, looking for my next Caroline or Kidd."

Ezio chuckles low in his throat. "So we are not so different, are we? Looking for true love, hopeless romantics, the both of us." He straddles Edward and pulls his shirt off. "And what if we find it?"

Edward arches his hips up into Ezio's. "Do you mean, will we give this up?" He pauses to think, screwing up his face with the effort. "I don't know. I suppose it depends." He grins. "Better enjoy it now. True love could be just around the corner for either one of us." He reaches up to kiss Ezio, then pulls him down onto the bed.


	50. Chapter 50

He counts himself fortunate to have only small burns on his hands. He could have died from the hot sugar--he's seen it happen. But the burns make his hands slow, make them bleed when he cuts the cane. And for that, he's been whipped, every day since he got burned.

Adéwalé wonders if the master and the overseers see him as a person, or only a faltering machine. If they truly saw him as human, how could they treat him so badly? But he _is_ a person, a young man, enslaved since birth and working in the sugarcane fields since boyhood.

He can't sleep tonight. His back and sides and hands hurt too much, from the lash and the burning sugar. He's trying desperately to wring some ounce of comfort from the thin mat on the dirt floor of his hut. He knows if he doesn't sleep, he'll be even slower tomorrow, and get a worse beating. But sleep is elusive when he's in so much pain.

Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe he's going mad from the pain. But there's a woman beside him, half white by the tint of her skin and the looseness of her curls. She's crouching by his head, and she whispers, "Want to get out of here forever?"

Escape? Of course he does. Who among them doesn't? "How?" he whispers.

"I happen to know that tonight's your chance," the woman tells him calmly. "How do you feel about becoming a pirate?"

"Anything is better than this," he says fervently.

She smiles. "Good. Come on, I hear it starting." He jumps up and follows her out of the shack.

Outside, all is chaos. There's a mass of people, all different colors, all smelling terrible, all attacking the guards and overseers. Adéwalé gapes at the sight, then winces as the woman elbows him. "You could fit in with that group, don't you agree?"

"But I don't know how to fight," he objects. Sure, he's wrestled with other boys, long ago it seems, but he's never used a weapon.

"Then let me help you," she says, stooping to pick up a machete from a dead overseer's hand.

It's a thing of beauty when she fights, her every movement poised and precise as she cuts down Adéwalé's tormentors. Her machete is deft and deadly as she kills, and Adéwalé is filled with awe.

Finally, it's over, and the surviving pirates have ransacked the storehouses on the plantation, carrying sugar and rum back to their ship as the escaped slaves run amok. The woman nudges Adéwalé. "This is your chance. Hard to catch a runaway slave on a ship full of heavily armed pirates." She hands him the machete.

"But I don't know anything about being a pirate," he objects.

"You already know how to cut things with a machete," she tells him. "It's just people instead of cane." She points.

There's a dying man on the ground, and when Adéwalé looks closer, he sees it's the man who lashed him yesterday. "Put him out of his misery," the woman suggests. "It's the right thing to do. Never forget, while you're a pirate, to do right."

So Adéwalé's first kill is a man with his guts on the ground. He screws up his courage, imagines the man's head as the base of a sugar cane, and swings. And then, once he's done vomiting, he picks his machete back up and runs down the shore to the ship, climbing aboard as if he belongs.

Somewhere along the way, the woman disappears, and he can only hope that she's found her own way to freedom, as she's helped him find his.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set after [chapter 128 of _Visitorial_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5889880/chapters/15877327). Have you read that? Good, carry on then.

"So, Desmond," Edward begins deceptively nonchalantly, with his best shit-eating grin. "I was planning your bachelor party--"

"Excuse me, what?" Desmond tries to interrupt.

"Bachelor parties!" Edward barrels on blithely. "They're one of the best things about your time. So, do you want female strippers or male?"

"I'd like Evie not to assassinate me," Desmond answers carefully.

"Male strippers it is. Which is lucky, because Ezio and I have been watching pole dancing tutorials on YouTube--"

" **What?!** Edward, when did I say I wanted you to strip for me, or that I wanted a bachelor party at all?!"

Edward stares at him with blank incomprehension. "But you're getting married. Isn't this part of the wedding? Strippers, alcohol, doing things you might later regret?"

Desmond groans. "You've been watching too many supposedly comedy movies, haven't you?"

"Well, I don't know about 'too many'," Edward hedges. "But yes, I have been watching comedy movies."

Desmond sighs. "See, those aren't really--I mean, not everyone wants a bachelor party with strippers."

"But we're not just any strippers," Edward objects. "We're your visitors."

"You're also my ancestors," Desmond points out. "Which makes the idea of you stripping for me more than a little weird."

"You never complained when we slept together," Edward grumbles. "Or kissed. Or--"

Desmond turns red. "That was different! I was going crazy from the Bleeding Effect then!"

Edward nods knowledgeably. "That's the excuse Aveline used last month after she yelled at everyone for everything."

Desmond slaps his forehead with his hand. "Edward! You know what I mean! The Animus...forgetting who I was...you remember!"

Edward nods. "You were as annoying a visitor as Adé is. Always telling me I'm not real. Do you think if I kissed Adé it would help?"

Desmond groans. "I can't imagine any way it would."

"That's settled, then," Edward declares. "I'll kiss him. He'll know it's really me."

"How??" Desmond demands. "Did you make it a habit to kiss him before?"

Edward shrugs. "No. But it helped you, so it might help him." He sighs. "Look, Desmond, you know I'm not smart like Altaïr or Haytham, or wise like Connor and Aveline. I'm not even suave like Ezio or nice like Shay. In my first lifetime all I was really good at was being a selfish bastard and getting my friends killed. And I haven't done a whole lot with my second except be childish and have my own son looking after me so I don't fuck everything up. That and steal ships. Oh, and movies. I steal a lot of movies. But what I'm trying to say, Desmond, is that I'd like to do something nice for you. And if that's acting like a complete fool, half naked, swinging around on a pole, then I'll do that. Or I'll hire girls to do it instead. It's not like I've never done that, either." He spreads his arms. "Just tell me what you want, Desmond."

Desmond gulps, but utterly fails at swallowing the lump in his throat. "Edward, you're not an idiot or a fool or any of that stuff. And I don't want a big rowdy party or strippers or anything. I just want a nice dinner with the people who matter the most to me. My visitors. My family. That's it."

"So I should return the pornographic balloons, then?" A smile tugs at Edward's face.

Desmond groans. "Definitely."

"What about a shower together beforehand, just for old times' sake?"

"No," Desmond says firmly, "absolutely not."


	52. Chapter 52

The hut is filled with small children, most of them dark-skinned, and Jenny doesn't know at first who she's visiting. None of them have the right complexion to be Jeanne or Rory or Matthew, they're all either too dark or too light, and anyway, she doesn't think any of them have ever been in such a squalid place. Elena was imprisoned alone, not with other children. The clothes don't look right for Darim or Marcello.

Which leaves her sister Jacob, and Jenny's breath catches in her throat. She's lived long enough to meet her sister in person, but she never knew she spent any time in captivity--that's the only thing this can be, a prison of sorts for the children of prisoners. And the children of slaves, most likely.

Jenny wonders bitterly if Haytham was ever imprisoned, or Matthew. It would just figure, since it seems to be a Kenway family trait to end up captive or in jail: her, her father, Connor, and now Jacob. Or Hannah, as the case may be.

One of the smaller children stirs on her dirty pile of rags, and Jenny looks at the child's sharp chin and prominent cheekbones. This has to be her sister. "Hannah," she calls, but the girl just rubs her eyes. Maybe she didn't hear? "Hannah," she calls again, and the girl frowns and looks up at her warily.

"What that?" she asks.

"Your name," Jenny tells her. Doesn't she know?

"Girl," she replies promptly. "Name Girl."

"No," Jenny breathes in horror. Her sister doesn't even have a _name_ , just like Elena didn't. How can this even be allowed? But before she can say something, there's a commotion at the door of the shack, and two people burst in, a tall, dark man and a curvy red-haired woman in trousers. _Anne_.

"This has to be it," Anne tells the man. "This is where they take the babes."

"Quickly," the man says, fingering his machete as he glances out through the broken door.

"There's four of them here could be her, Adéwalé," Anne says, pointing at the four pale-skinned girls, Jacob among them. "Which one is it?" The other girls, and the other children, are starting to sit up and cry. Jenny doesn't know who's been taking care of them, but they're obviously upset at the sight of strangers.

"It's you they're looking for," Jenny tells her sister, who shrinks back into the pile of rags.

"No, no hurt!" she whimpers.

"They're not here to hurt you," Jenny whispers, although it's not like anyone else can hear her. "They're here to help you. But they don't know it's you."

"Me?" Hannah asks, thinking about this. "Help me?"

"Yes," Jenny tells her with a smile. "That lady is Anne. She's going to be like a mother to you."

"Mother?" Hannah asks, frowning.

"She's going to love you and look after you," Jenny tries to explain.

"Love?" It breaks Jenny's heart to see the guarded look on her sister's face. "What that?"

"It's the best," Jenny promises her. "Your life is going to be full of love, but you have to smile at that lady and tell her your name."

Hannah frowns, looking sidelong at Anne as she goes to child after child, looking for, presumably, some hint of Mary or Edward in their faces.

"How will you know which child is the right one?" Adéwalé asks Anne as she stares at a terrified blonde girl.

"I don't know!" Anne says, near tears. "I thought I'd--"

"Go on," Jenny encourages her sister. "Say 'Hannah'."

"Hannah?" the girl says doubtfully, and Anne stands straight up, looking around.

"Who said that?"

"Say it again," Jenny urges. "Please."

"Hannah?" Her tiny voice is uncertain, but Anne zeroes in on her, letting out a cry of shock as she comes closer.

"Look at her, Adé, she's got Edward's chin and Mary's eyes! And Hannah was the name Mary was going to give her, she told me so. Hannah for a girl, Jacob for a boy." Anne smiles with relief, leaning closer to pick up the girl. Hannah trembles, but with Jenny's comforting murmurs she lets Anne hold her, clutching at her shirt with a nervous look.

"I really appreciate that you're doing this, Anne," Jenny tells her, knowing that she won't be heard. But she can't not say _something_. "I know you're giving up a whole life of piracy that you love, for my sister, who's not even your child."

"What about all these other children?" Adéwalé asks, looking at the more than a dozen toddlers shrinking away from him and his machete in terror.

How they help the other children remains a mystery to Jenny, as her visit ends abruptly, returning her to the bedroom she shares, now, with her elderly sister. And she looks up at Jacob with a smile, seeing the face of that frightened toddler from so long ago.

"What's got you so pleased?" Jacob asks curiously.

"You were a fat baby," Jenny laughs.

"What! I was not!"

"You were! I just saw you."

Jacob's sharp intake of breath startles Jenny. "It _was_ you, wasn't it?"

"You can't remember that day," Jenny tells her. "It's impossible. You could barely even speak."

"I remember two women and a man," Jacob says slowly, contemplatively. "And one of the women was Anne. But the other one, who disappeared...that was you, wasn't it?"

Jenny nods. "That was me from a couple of minutes ago."

Jacob stands, crosses to her, and hugs her tightly. "Thank you for all you've done for me. I don't think I'd have ever been found if it wasn't for you."

Jenny, surprised, hugs her back. "I wouldn't have, either, So we're even." She smiles. "I don't know what either of us would have done without the other."

Jacob smiles at her sister. "It doesn't bear thinking about."


	53. Chapter 53

This particular safehouse is near a very thorough community center that offers all sorts of classes and activities. Geraldine and Grace have gymnastics class here, and Elena takes judo. Altaïr has come home from his ceramics class with a variety of delicately hand-painted coffee mugs, and Ezio has bedded at least three of the women in the book club already.

So, when Desmond suggests to Evie that she try something out to help her get acclimated to this century, she looks through the pamphlets and settles on ballroom dancing. After all, if she can dance with Crawford Starrick, some stranger should be no problem.

"What if I don't dress correctly?" she frets, looking over her T-shirt and sweatpants as she prepares for her first lesson. "Maybe I'm supposed to wear a fancy dress, and I don't have any in this century."

Desmond rubs her shoulders, attempting to soothe her. "Evie, they said to wear comfortable clothes. That's code for workout wear or sweats. You'll be fine like this."

Evie adjusts the neckline of her shirt self-consciously. "I hope so."

Tonight, Ezio drives her--his book club is at the same time, and he explains to her on the way that he's this close to finally getting somewhere with the pretty redhead with too many cats.

"But aren't you allergic to cats?" Evie asks.

"Yes," and Ezio heaves a sigh. "But one must sometimes make sacrifices for the cause of love. Besides, they have these medicines in this century that you spray up your nose for allergies."

Evie makes a face at the thought, as Ezio pulls into a parking space. "Well, here we are," she says nervously. "Thank you, Ezio."

"Anytime, Evie. After all, I saw how you used to drive." He winks and saunters off towards his book club. Evie enters the dance room and stows her things in a locker as directed. She leans against the wall, looking nervously down at the floor as the room fills up, and then the class begins. The instructor has them start with some basic stretches, which Evie excels at, and then pairs them off to practice a basic waltz.

Evie looks up from the blue sweatpants of her partner to his shockingly familiar face. " _Haystack_? I mean, I'm sorry, I was just--"

" _Evie_??" Haytham asks. "I thought I recognized you earlier. I didn't realize you were in this class too."

She gives a nervous little laugh. "Desmond suggested I take a class to get used to this new...place...I find myself in." She looks around at the other pairs, close enough to overhear.

Haytham nods. "And I signed up because I thought it would remind me of...where...I used to live."

"So you two know each other?" the instructor asks caustically. "Great. You can catch up after class. Now, mister..."

Haytham grits his teeth. "Haytham."

"Mister Hayden, can you _please_ hold your hands like I was _trying_ to show you, except you weren't paying attention?" He taps his foot impatiently while Haytham hesitantly puts a hand on Evie's waist, taking her hand with his other. "Can we please continue, or do you need to talk some more?"

"We're quite fine, I think," Evie says in her frostiest I've-met-Queen-Victoria-and-you-haven't voice.

"Brits!" the instructor says with a roll of his eyes, then resumes teaching. The dance is so simple and familiar that Haytham and Evie could both dance it in their sleep, and so they invariably talk.

"You know, the last time I danced with a...person of your stature," Evie smothers a giggle, "I kicked him between the legs." And killed him, too, but she doesn't mention that. Too many listening ears.

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't...kick...me." He does a little fancy footwork, and Evie follows suit.

"Of course not. You're Desmond's father." She twirls in place, and then he puts his hand back on her waist.

"Which makes it awkward to dance with you and hold you this close," Haytham admits.

"And I hope that Aveline and Shay know that your virtue is safe with me," Evie teases. "They need never fear that I will take advantage of this closeness."

His cheeks color with embarrassment as he lifts her into the air. Everyone in the class stops to stare at them, and the instructor actually puffs up with rage.

"You...two!" he spits. "Thinking you know everything because you watched a couple seasons of a TV show! Constantly talking in my class, being rude! I won't have it!" He points at the door. "Out! **Out**!"

Haytham catches Evie's eye, and she bursts out laughing. "All right," she says through her mirth. They collect their things at walk out into the courtyard, only to see Ezio on a bench with, presumably, the red-haired cat lady. "Hold on," Evie tells Haytham, "he was supposed to be my ride home."

"I can certainly drive you," Haytham offers gallantly.

Evie grins. "I'll just tell him I'm going home, then." She walks over and pokes Ezio's head. "I'm getting a ride with Haytham. Enjoy your book club."

Ezio nods, though his mouth is too full of the redhead's tongue for him to say anything.

Haytham and Evie chat easily all the way back to the safehouse, where Desmond looks up in confusion from checking Elena's homework. "I didn't think you'd be back yet. And where's Ezio?"

Evie laughs and kisses him. "Haytham and I are very bad students, it seems. And Ezio is somewhere with his latest girlfriend."

Desmond sighs and shakes his head. "Then I guess it's good that Dad was there to bring you home."

"How did dancing class go?" Aveline asks, entering the living room and kissing Haytham.

"Awfully," he tells her frankly. "But Evie and I had a great time. And she neither kicked nor assassinated me, unlike the last Grand Master she danced with."

Aveline laughs and links her fingers through Haytham's. "I told you to stay home and dance with me. But at least now you have a second potential dance partner here at home."


	54. Chapter 54

Elena savors each of her Christmas presents, as usual. After all, Christmas is her and her dad's thing. Geraldine tries to copy her and open her presents slowly, but somehow ends up running out of gifts before everyone else. And Grace tears through hers in a frenzy, leaving paper strewn all over the safehouse. But finally, there's nothing but a small pile of gifts left before Elena.

"Dad, what are these?" she asks, confused.

"They're for your visitors," Desmond explains. "We all got together and picked out things that they might like."

"No fair," Grace whines, "'Lena gets extra presents! She has extra friends _and_ extra presents!"

"These are special toys for her visitors, not for her," Haytham tries to explain.

Grace pouts. "I'm gonna have visitors someday, you just wait and see! I'm gonna have a hundred and you'll have to get them all presents and each one gets to go to Disney World and--"

Elena opens the largest one, marked for Rory, to discover a Mr. Potato Head. "Um, all right? I'm not sure how he'll--" but the rest of her sentence is drowned out by Shay and Aveline cracking up.

"I almost forgot about the potatoes!" Shay guffaws.

"I never did," Aveline tells him.

Elena sets aside the Mr. Potato Head and reaches for the next gift. It turns out to be a cross stitch kit for Jenny. "But she does embroidery all the time at home. Why would she want to when she's visiting me?"

"Well, uh," Haytham stammers, "someday she might not be able to do embroidery unless she's on a visit. And it might make her feel better to do so."

There's a ship-in-a-bottle kit for Jacob ("See, you make it and then it's like, wow, how'd that ship get in that bottle?" Edward explains), a nerf gun for Darim (Altaïr doesn't bother explaining, he just shoots Edward with it), an e-reader full of illegally downloaded books for Marcello ("Edward was very happy when I said I wanted to become a pirate, but less happy when I just wanted to pirate books," Ezio tells Elena), a handmade fanorona board for Matthew ("We used to play in the evenings," Connor says quietly) and a porcelain plate of the month club membership for Jeanne ("She'll be so happy to see each new one when she visits," Shay gushes.)

Elena looks doubtfully at the small pile of visitor presents. None of them are anything she'd want--who even _uses_ e-readers anymore when they could use a tablet?? Cross stitch is so boring, ships in bottles are weird, and she's much too old for Mr. Potato Head. Porcelain plates with puppies on them are so not her thing, either, and fanorona isn't nearly as fun as Frye Chess. At least the nerf gun is useful, she thinks, aiming it at Grace.

But it was nice of everyone to go out of their way for her visitors, she decides. Maybe their family is big and crazy, but she feels loved and accepted like she knows she would never have in any other family. And that's the best present of all.


	55. Chapter 55

Shay thinks the ducks at the local park are looking a little bit overweight lately, but they still come waddling eagerly to Geraldine and Grace, quacking madly as if they've never, ever eaten. And the girls are happy to throw bread for them, to the point that Shay buys a whole loaf every other day just for the ducks.

Connor had read on the internet that white bread is bad for ducks, so Shay spends a tiny sliver of the Templars' limited funds on multigrain.

Shay has learned a lot about ducks from watching different groups of them pig out on bread for years, now: how to tell males from females even in their winter plumage, when the ducklings grow into adults and pair off (or form trios, he's strangely comforted to see), and which mother ducks take the best care of their broods. He tries to impart some of this knowledge, but Geraldine is only old enough to tell male from female ducks in breeding season, and Grace has just learned to quack back at them. So Shay keeps his observations to himself, not even telling his visitors. The ducks are for him and his daughters.

"You're not moping around over Haytham, are you?" Jacob Frye's voice comes from behind him. "Because I just came from talking to _him_ , and _he_ was moping over _you_. I'll kill myself if I have to listen to any more of it. I'll drown myself in that duck pond."

"No, we worked it out, thanks," Shay says with a little smile. He looks at Grace, who is getting her pink patent leather shoes all muddy as she ventures close to the water to feed the ducks. "If you see us with Grace, then yes, we've worked it out."

Jacob looks suspiciously at Shay. "You're sure then? Not mooning over your Grand Master?"

Shay grins at him, throwing a piece of bread that several ducks begin squabbling over. "I'm sure. And if you could have seen the three of us last night, you'd have no doubts either."


	56. Outtake!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an outtake of [Visitorial chapter 78](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/14840992). It's what would happen if Haytham had a little less self-control. It begins after Haytham has taken over Adéwalé's body.

He had not expected to be hurt himself, but looking up at Shay, from this position, pinned between the other templar's knees, is hard. All Haytham can think of is the last time they'd done this—the circumstances had been vastly different. They'd both been naked, and Aveline had been involved.

Now Shay is very clearly working his way up to killing him. The intent is there, in his eyes, and Haytham suddenly aches to hold him. And his body betrays him, then--not even _his_ body, but his self-control. All he can remember is the last time he was pinned down by Shay, and where Aveline's hands had been, and--oh, oh, dear, this is very awkward.

"Sir?" Shay asks, dismayed. "Any chance of, uh, a change in orders?" He's staring down in disbelief, and Haytham can't really blame him. It must be the strangest thing, to have an enemy at death's door, only to see him react not with fear or anger but arousal. Shay shifts uncomfortably, and if Haytham wasn't too distracted by the feeling of the other man's inner thighs, he could have turned that moment to his advantage.

What exactly he'd do is another matter entirely. What he _wants_ to do is roll Shay over, grind against him--no, no, he's in Adéwalé's body, it wouldn't be appropriate (and he hears the man himself yelling angrily, no doubt about the reaction that Haytham just can't _help_. It's _Shay_ , for goodness sake. But no, this is a Shay who hasn't even figured out that Aveline wants him. It's years still before the two of them proposition Haytham, decades before he accepts, centuries before they settle into their arrangement.) That would raise questions he doesn't want to answer, not now, not ever.

"Damn it, whoever you are, if I die because you're too distracted by Shay...!" Adéwalé grits out, and Haytham feels his cheeks burn with shame. Only with the most monumental self-control can he hold himself still until--yes--Shay gets thrown off him.

"Thank God for Edward," Haytham mutters to himself, still trying to regain control of his errant emotions. And then he gets tackled by himself, and if he ever had any problem telling himself apart from Ezio, here's proof: being pinned down by himself is exactly the opposite of arousing.


	57. Chapter 57

This is awkward, but Adéwalé's past caring about that.

He doesn't even know why he's decided to die so far from home, from Saint-Domingue, where he's lived for many years. And his grandson is a fine Assassin with more important things to worry about than taking his aged grandfather to the Homestead of the Colonial-- _American_ Assassins.

But Eseosa is a dutiful man, and Adéwalé is old and nearly blind and wants just one thing, so Eseosa will do his best to make it happen.

And really, Adéwalé was only thinking that Connor would be there. He didn't realize that Aveline would be there with her children. And her husband.

When they come at last into the warmth of the house, Adéwalé hears childish chatter, Aveline's determined efforts to get her children to bed, and...

" _Adéwalé_ ," Shay breathes, voice filled with a mix of emotions Adé isn't sure he could untangle even if he could see the man's face. Guilt, yes, tons of guilt, and it selfishly pleases him to hear it. But also regret, and perhaps even a surprising touch of respect. Surely Shay as a Templar has other people, other Templars, to respect.

"Grandfather," Eseosa says, holding Adéwalé's elbow to keep him close, "this man's a Templar..."

"I do not fear him," Adéwalé says simply. "He had a chance to kill me long ago, and he would not now kill an old man who cannot even see him."

"Never," Shay agrees, and that breaks the tension. Connor settles Adéwalé and Eseosa in Achilles' old bedroom, and Adé sleeps peacefully that night despite the noises of little feet whose owners really ought to be in bed already.

In the morning Eseosa is troubled as he gets his grandfather ready for the day. "I don't know why Connor lets that Templar stay here," he mutters as he helps Adéwalé dress.

"Would you allow the children here but turn out their father into the cold?" Adé asks. "Be a good child and find out about breakfast, please." Once Eseosa has left, Adéwalé turns to where Edward is sitting on the bed. "You know, even though I cannot see, I know the faces you are making."

"I'm not doing anything!" Edward claims, all bruised innocence, as Adéwalé mimics him perfectly. "You're making it up, Adé."

"Thank you," Adé tells him simply, "for your fairness towards me."

"You've led an unfair life," Edward explains. "Any little bit I could do...was probably too little, too late."

"It was neither," Adéwalé assures him. "You saved me, didn't you? From your own son."

"Jaysus, Adé, that was so long ago. And he saved you too, from living through it."

"Not getting killed made an impression on me." He'd like to say more, but Eseosa returns and leads him to breakfast.

* * *

It is odd to know people who don't know he knows them. It's been explained to him twice, and the second time he had actually bothered to listen. The Shay and Aveline and Connor he has grown to know are not those of this moment; they have yet to grow old and die and come back. The Assassins and Templar he sat with at breakfast have no idea that he will someday visit them as a younger man. And he cannot tell them, any more than they think they can tell him of their visitors.

"What thoughts are you so lost in?" Eseosa asks him, and Adéwalé musters a smile.

"Oh, just the musings of an old man about to die."

By the sound of his voice, Eseosa is most likely frowning. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" Adéwalé asks, brutally. "It's true. I have come here to die. I should hate to be disappointed."

"Why here, though? There are Assassins back home, my father and children are there as well; why would you choose to come here?"

Adéwalé heaves a sigh. " _Your_ children, _your_ Assassins, they are the future. Here everything is about my past. Connor is the grandson of my old friend. Aveline I have known for many years." This is both true and false; he doubts she remembers that day in the market when she was a little girl chasing a strange man's red sash. "Even Shay...at my age, an old enemy is as valuable as an old friend."

"Foolishness, grandfather," Eseosa says fondly, and pats his hand. Adéwalé simply smiles, and they move on to other matters.

* * *

They've been there three days, and Adéwalé thinks this might be his last. The haze that fills his vision is darker today, and he keeps losing the thread of his thoughts, only to recover it minutes later. When nobody is in the room, he rifles through his bag, seeking by touch the jagged object, neither rock nor glass, that Desmond gave him years ago. He sneaks it into his shirt, pressing it against the paper-thin skin of his waist.

When Eseosa leads him outside to sit in the sunshine, he thinks it might be time, especially when Edward sits next to him. "How's it hanging, Adé?"

Adéwalé smiles. "Only you would ask such a question in my final moments."

Connor, not the one still in the house, but the one only he can almost see, asks, "Do you want to die here? I died, or will die, on this bench."

"Fitting, then," Adéwalé says with a smile.

"What was that?" Eseosa asks.

"I wanted to have friends and family beside me," Adéwalé tells Connor. "I thought I had to come here for that."

"We would all have come to you anywhere," Connor chides him fondly. "Or do you still reject our existence?"

"I would be with you wherever you go," Eseosa tells Adéwalé, kissing his forehead. "O my grandfather, you feel so cold, though today is warm."

Adéwalé sighs. "It is close to my end, Eseosa."

"Don't say that!" Eseosa insists, alarmed. "Surely you have many more days in you."

"Surely I do not," Adéwalé tells his grandson, gently. "I feel myself surrounded by old friends long gone."

"Well, that's a gloomy way to look at it," Edward tells him cheerfully.

"Thank you, Edward," Adéwalé says simply, "for everything. For your fairness in an unfair life." He turns, he knows there's another visitor to his right, but he's not sure who. "Haytham? Is that you?"

"Yes," Haytham says tensely.

"Thank you," Adéwalé says simply. "For letting me live. And you, Shay, are you here? Thank you as well. You showed me mercy I had no right to expect."

"Adéwalé?" Shay's voice comes from behind him, and has a different quality from that of his visitors. He knows that this is the Shay that's actually here, the only one he would have called real, once upon a time.

"Shay?" he calls, hands reaching until Shay takes them in his own. Adéwalé feels for the ring, runs his fingers along the engraved cross. "I am about to die. Please bring my Brother and Sister in the Creed."

"Of course," Shay tells him, footsteps retreating towards the house.

Adéwalé speaks quickly once Shay is out of earshot. "Altaïr. Ezio. Thank you for guiding me."

Eseosa makes noises of alarm, now. "You can't be dying!"

Adéwalé ignores him and continues. "Desmond, thank you for the Shard. Evie, Jacob, Arno, Aveline, Connor. Thank you all, my Brothers and Sisters."

"Aveline and Connor aren't here yet," Eseosa remonstrates. "Who are you talking to?"

Adéwalé holds out a hand and feels Edward take it. "The past, grandson. And you are the future." He reaches for Eseosa's hand, squeezes hard. "And soon, I will be of the past." And perhaps of the future.

Footsteps behind him. It must be Connor, Aveline, and Shay. Adéwalé's breath begins to rattle in his chest. He feels like he's drowning--

"No!" It's Shay, non-visiting Shay. The closest thing to an enemy here. "Adéwalé, you can't die, not now!"

Adéwalé takes a deep breath, knows he will never take another such, and coughs weakly, leaning on his grandson. The world dims around him as he tells Shay, "I can and I will die, Shay, but it is not at your hand, so be at peace."

He feels Connor's heavy hand on one of his shoulders, Aveline's light touch on the other, and he sighs and leans into their hands, squeezing Edward's and Eseosa's. He's surrounded by friends and family, sitting up, and he can't see anything, not even the haze--

\--breathing is too difficult and he hasn't the energy to spare--

\--he's coming apart at the seams, every scar (and there are many, from his own hand and others') seeming to burst with light as he explodes, very slowly, in a cloud of shimmering golden light, starting from the shard at his waist.

And then the light dims, and two Assassins and one Templar are left staring at the body of the man they have all called a brother.

"Have you seen anything like that?" Shay asks.

"No," Aveline breathes.

"Yes." Connor frowns so deeply that neither Shay nor Aveline asks him where.

"Seen what?" Eseosa asks.

Adéwalé appears before them, smiling gently, an expression at odds with his harshly scarred face.

"Tell him I love him," he says, before fading from view.

"What about that, have you seen _that_ , Connor?" Shay asks, rattled.

" _Yes_ ," Connor answers shortly.

"Seen _what_?" Eseosa demands, frustrated.

"Nothing," Aveline says, stomping on Shay's foot. (He winces.) "Adéwalé?" she calls loudly.

Eseosa shakes his grandfather's hand, then again, then checks the nonexistent pulse. "He's--he's--" Tears spring to his eyes, and Aveline hugs him.

"It was a peaceful death," she tells him softly. "And I know he was happy to be beside you. He loved you very much."

"Every Assassin would be glad to..." Connor trails off as Eseosa howls with grief.

Shay awkwardly pats Eseosa's shoulder, and they stand around him until he merely sobs.


	58. Chapter 58

Adéwalé squeezes his eyes shut, not that it makes any difference, as blind as he is. Still, everything seems brighter through his eyelids, and he opens his eyes.

He marvels for a minute at the crisp details he hasn't seen in ages: the uneven strokes of paint on a wall, the drape of a blanket on a bed, the texture of the fabric itself, the fine hairs on a man's arm, the bulge of the muscles beneath, the sweat running down his back, the hands of another man clutching him.

It's nothing Adéwalé hasn't seen before, of course. But it's something he hasn't seen in a very long time. Not that he's seen anything at all in a very long time. He sort of wasn't expecting to see _this_ , especially not when--he carefully looks closer at the faces of the two men, contorted by their ecstasy--these were very nearly the last faces he would have seen in his life....

He stares into a corner and clears his throat politely. Somehow this reaches the two men over their own chorus of moans, grunts, and sighs. There's a general flurry of activity, and Adéwalé glances back at the bed to see them covered by the blanket and blushing deeply.

"I had thought," he tells them severely, "that when I came back from the dead, it would be in the company of someone with whom I had had more positive interactions. Aveline, or Edward, or even Connor. Not the pair of Templars who almost killed me."

Haytham clears his throat, but it's Shay who speaks. "You made it!"

Adéwalé nods. "Just a few minutes ago, I sat near you at the Homestead and felt the Shard all but burn me."

Haytham asks, "So, do you believe in us then?"

Adéwalé chuckles. "You forget, I have believed in visiting for years, now." He looks significantly at the blanket. "I have even experienced its more awkward and inconvenient manifestations."

Shay mutters, "I'd call this awkward and inconvenient." He looks longingly down at Haytham, who is reaching for his pants on the floor beside the bed, then rolls off of him and looks for his own.

Adéwalé waits patiently while they make themselves decent. "Is this the house you live in now?" he asks as soon as they can clamber out from under the blanket. "The last one I saw was the very cold warehouse."

Haytham and Shay exchange a look. "That was a long time ago," Haytham says carefully. "We've moved around quite a bit."

"You'll get used to it," Shay encourages him. "And to living in this time. Do you know, they have things that go in your shoes so your socks don't smell?"

Haytham rolls his eyes. "Of all the modern inventions, Shay, you choose insoles?"

Shay retorts defensively, "He commented on my socks once. When I was an Assassin."

Adéwalé blinks. "And that is what you remember of our meeting then, Shay?" He chuckles softly and looks around. "Where is everybody else?"

"Downstairs," Haytham tells him. "We got the attic bedroom because..." his eyes flick to Shay. "Well, there's the three of us in here," he finishes, mumbling as a faint blush dusts his cheeks.

"You might have to share with Connor," Shay thinks aloud. "Or Clay, or maybe even Altaïr."

"Probably Connor," Haytham points out. "He has the biggest room of those three."

Shay nods. "Connor, then. Come on, let's go tell everyone." He's grinning, Adéwalé realizes after listening to the tone of his voice. (Will he ever get out of the habit of reading expressions through the spoken word?) He smiles in response, and turns to Haytham, who is looking polite despite his frustrated tone. And it hits him, then: Haytham and Shay are the _perfect_ people to come back to. Because even though they're Templars and he's an Assassin, even though he's interrupted them in a very intimate moment, they're welcoming him into their home, their family. And if even they welcome him, surely everyone else will.

Adéwalé has a place here. He belongs.


	59. Chapter 59

Altaïr releases a deep breath he didn't know he was holding. They're in the supermarket parking lot at 2am, Evie is behind the wheel, and so far the car is unscathed. There was that close call with the shopping cart, but it rolled right into the cart corral without leaving so much as a scratch. Altaïr begins to think he'll survive the night.

"All right, I think I'm ready for the road," Evie tells him, then exits the parking lot.

"No!" Altaïr is quick to say. "No, no! No! Evie, not yet--drive on the right side of the road!"

"I am," she says, a bit annoyed. "See? Left like a sensible person."

"No, no, no," Altaïr says, resisting the urge to grab the steering wheel. "In America, you don't drive on the left side, you drive on the right!"

"I know _that_ , but right is wrong and stupid," Evie insists. "This has to do with Connor's war, doesn't it? Americans can be so contrary sometimes, doing foolish things just to be un-British." She swerves into the right lane to avoid a car.

Altaïr gulps and clings to his seat. "While I may agree with you," he says through gritted teeth, "I'd feel better if you followed traffic laws."

"But what if I need to get somewhere fast?" Evie asks, stomping on the accelerator and veering into the left lane to pass a truck in an intersection. "I mean, if I follow the flow of traffic, it can be really slow."

Altaïr grips the door, shrinking back into the dubious safety of his seat. "And yet, infinitely safer than driving like this."

"How is it not safe?" Evie asks. "I mean, there's not even any horses to cause problems. What's that noise?"

He groans. "You've attracted the attention of the police, Evie."

She rolls her eyes. "It's not like I ran over any of them. What do they care?"

He makes a frustrated noise. "They regulate cars and drivers these days, Evie. Pull over to the side and just be nice to him, all right?"

Evie frowns. "I'm sure I could drive fast enough to give him the slip."

Altaïr facepalms. "I'm sure you couldn't. Look, just stop and let him come over here. Show him the license Rebecca made for you, say you're very sorry for driving so fast, let him look down your shirt, and maybe he won't give you a ticket."

Evie sighs heavily, pulling over to the side of the road. "It's no fun to drive in this time period."

Altaïr sighs in relief as the car stops. "It's not supposed to be fun."


	60. Chapter 60

Haytham maneuvers the shopping cart into the shampoo aisle and breathes a sigh of relief. "There you are. I thought I'd lost you back in the foul-smelling air fresheners."

Ezio holds up a bottle with a mischievous smile on his face. "Haytham, what are your opinions on shea butter?"

Haytham furrows his brow. "I have none. You're the expert on grooming products."

Ezio smirks. "It says it's pressed from shea nuts. Are you sure you don't have any opinions on anything that comes from shea nuts?"

Haytham crosses his arms over his chest defensively. "I see where you're going with this."

Ezio puts the bottle back on the shelf. "I suppose you're not interested in this, now that I think about it."

"Thank you," Haytham breathes.

"--when you could just squeeze Shay's nuts for yourself," Ezio chuckles.

Haytham flushes bright red. "Ezio!" he snaps.

"Is it really that good for your hair?" Ezio continues blithely.

Haytham buries his face in his hands in shame. "About the shampoo, I have no idea."

"But about the, ah, 'shea butter' you and Aveline have access to?" Ezio persists.

Haytham's only reply is a wordless noise of miserable embarrassment.

Ezio grins. "The top of that bottle looked defective, anyway. Like it would spray white goo all over the shower--"

Haytham turns even redder, if possible. "Ezio!" he whispers hoarsely. "There might be children around!"

Ezio smirks. "So what? I'm talking about the shampoo bottle, not something _else_ long and narrow--or not so narrow, perhaps."

Haytham whimpers, looking side to side for an escape route. "I can't believe you're talking about this in public."

"And I can't believe you think I'm speaking of anything but shampoo. You, Haytham, have a dirty mind," Ezio says primly, strolling into the cereal aisle as Haytham, blushing hotly, follows with the cart.

"I should have brought Altaïr instead," he mutters under his breath.


	61. Chapter 61

"I have a... difficult relationship with one of my sons," Haytham begins, eyeing Dr. Wilkerson warily. "I love them more than life itself, my sons, but with Connor there's... problems."

"What sort of problems?" the therapist asks, tapping his pen on his clipboard annoyingly.

Haytham frowns, trying to work out what to say. "We said some things to each other, once. When he was a young man and I should have known better than to argue with him. He... said and did some very painful things." This is a lie. Connor's blade was so sharp Haytham had hardly felt it. "And I've forgiven him for all that," he explains quickly, "but I don't think he's forgiven himself, and I don’t know how to have a proper father-son relationship now."

"Well," Dr. Wilkerson begins after an uncomfortable minute of silence, "that's something he's going to have to work on for himself. I can help you with how to be a better father and how to cope with the pain he's caused you--"

Not likely, Haytham thinks, rubbing the scar on his neck.

"--but I can't make him forgive himself, or forgive you for anything you might have said or done. Ah, is there anything else you wanted to work on?"

Haytham clears his throat, turning red. "Er, well, about my, erm, romantic life..."

The therapist nods encouragingly. "Yes? Is there someone special in your life?"

"Actually," Haytham stammers, "there's two. Special people. In my life."

Another nod. "And?"

Haytham wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Well, that's hardly normal, is it? Perhaps there's something wrong with me?"

The therapist stares at him. "You think there's something wrong with you because you love two people?"

"Yes." It seems so obvious to Haytham. "They're a married couple, and I...and I..."

Dr. Wilkerson blinks. “Both of them… are having an affair with you?”

Haytham recoils. “God, no! Not an _affair_. That sounds so sordid. No, nobody is _cheating_. At least, I don't think you would call it cheating if it's with each other’s permission and active participation.”

Dr. Wilkerson seems a little disappointed, then brightens. “Oh, so it's a polyamorous relationship? A menage a trois?”

Haytham frowns and shrugs with one shoulder. “I suppose you could say that.”

"Do they love you in return? As you love them?”

"Oh yes. Vigorously."

"Then what is the problem?"

"I...I don't _deserve_ this kind of love." The therapist just _looks_ at him, and it makes Haytham uncomfortable, and he hastens to explain, “I mean, I’m not exactly the nicest person, so I don’t really deserve to be as happy as they make me.”

“So,” the therapist trails off, at a loss for words. “You’re displeased because you’re happier than you think you deserve to be.”

Haytham nods. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

The therapist looks skeptically at him. “And what do you think you deserve?”

“To be...hurt...by my son,” Haytham says promptly. “I’m a terrible father. Else why would he...hurt...me the way he did? I must have deserved it. He’s a good man.”

Dr. Wilkerson sighs, and reaches for his computer keyboard. "Do you want to keep this time slot every week? I think we have a lot to discuss."

Haytham slumps, defeated, on the couch. "All right."


	62. Chapter 62

Adéwalé moors the _Experto Crede_ at the tiny pier behind the Homestead and jumps the short distance to the dock. His legs buckle as he lands, and he nearly stumbles. Dammit! He just hasn't been the same since Haytham and Shay nearly killed him, and he thinks his age is beginning to creep up on him. Climbing the hill to the manor house is almost too much for his creaking knees, and as he nears the summit he sees a woman and child standing beside Achilles. But Achilles' wife and son are dead--who are these?

As he reaches them (and it takes far too long before he can see them properly--is he losing his sight to old age?) he sees that the woman and child are obviously Native, and the child reminds him of someone, but he's not sure who. Something about the eyes and the chin. This only mystifies him more.

And then he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him, and turns to see Desmond staring at the woman with the strangest expression on his face.

"Do you know them?" Adéwalé murmurs.

"I-- _yeah_ ," Desmond tells him, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's Ziio." His voice is reverent, disbelieving, yearning, fond, all at once.

"Who?" Adéwalé asks, confused, and Achilles, smiling, steps closer to him.

"This is my friend Ziio," Achilles tells Adéwalé, "and her son, whose name I can't even begin to pronounce."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio says, and the toddler looks up at her with an engaging grin, then at Adéwalé. He says something, presumably in his native language, and Ziio chides him, "English, Ratonhnhaké:ton."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiles, showing off his teeth growing in, and waves at Adéwalé. "Good af'noon," he chirps.

Adéwalé bends down to shake the boy's hand, and nearly falls over when Desmond informs him, "That's Connor."

"Really?" Adéwalé asks, surprised. So this happy little boy will grow up to be the quiet, withdrawn Assassin Adéwalé counts as a friend.

Ratonhnhaké:ton says something that sounds like "huh." Ziio nudges him again, and he corrects himself, "Yes!"

"She is a friend of the Assassins," Achilles informs Adéwalé. "Anything you would say to me can be said in front of her."

"I have no loyalty to any Templar anymore," she says, perhaps a trifle defensively, and places her hand on her son's narrow shoulder.

"A moment, please," Adéwalé says, and heads for the outhouse. He steps in and Desmond, wrinkling his nose, follows.

"Connor's mother is Achilles' friend?" Adéwalé asks as Desmond tries to wave away flies.

"Yeah," Desmond tells him, "that's Ziio all right. You know she's going to die in, like, a couple of years."

"So she's Haytham's lover," Adéwalé clarifies.

"She was," Desmond confirms. "But when she found out she was pregnant she sent him away." He sighs. "I really wish Dad could be here instead of me. I know what he would give to see her again. I bled him often enough to be in love with her myself. Oh, not anymore," he's quick to say in response to Adéwalé's shocked expression. "It's like...when you used to love someone but it was so long ago that you're just...fond of them now, you know?"

Adéwalé thinks of Bastienne. "Yes."

"And I don't even have Connor's feelings towards her as a mother anymore either. I wish he could have been here, too. Just so he could see her again. You know how sometimes something happens and all you can think is how someone else deserves it so much more than you?"

"I can't say I do," Adéwalé has to admit. But then he thinks back on people he's killed as a pirate--did they maybe deserve to live?--and slaves he's been unable to liberate. Don't they deserve a free life just as much as he does? "Perhaps," he allows.

"Well, that's how I'm feeling," Desmond tells him. "Connor and Haytham would give anything to see her again, but it's just me and you here." He brightens suddenly as a thought occurs to him. "You could do something for Connor, though."

"What?" Adéwalé asks warily.

"Write him a letter. Or...make it like a diary page, maybe, so he doesn't suspect you have visitors. Talk about today, talk about meeting his mother and him. And hide it in the house where Achilles won't find it, but Connor will someday."

Adéwalé looks dubiously at Desmond. "And that will make him happy?"

Desmond shrugs. "Happy _and_ sad. But the good kind of sad."

Adéwalé sighs. "Very well. I will do this for Connor." He clears his throat. "Now may I have my privacy?"


	63. Chapter 63

"Do you ever start to wonder," Dr. Wilkerson begins his therapy session one week, "if maybe they're right in their delusions?"

"I think the question here is, do _you_ wonder that?" his therapist asks.

"I do," he says slowly. "There's this group, it's like they have shared multiple personalities."

"That's a new one," she chuckles.

"I know, but one day... all right, I was talking to the one I'm calling H."

"About what?"

"Oh, about his father's drinking problem. Something normal for once. Well, then he tells me that someone else wants to talk to me. And it turns out that I've talked to this...person before. During a session with the father."

"So? The father and son talked at home. They're playing you."

"I know, that's what I thought. So, at the end of this session, I told him a phrase, something he'd never think of. And then when the father came in immediately afterwards, I asked if the other one was still there, and if so, what the words were."

"And?"

"He knew. _And_ his accent changed when I was talking to the other man."

She chews her lip. "It's interesting, but there must be some other way...maybe the father was listening at the door."

"I whispered."

She shakes her head. "You can't go believing your patients' delusions."

"What if it got to the point where it was stupid not to?" he asks contemplatively.

"Never happen. You've got to keep some distance."

He snorts. "I wish _they'd_ keep a little distance from each other. In my office, at least."

"Oh?"

"Didn't I tell you? The menage a trois had sex on my couch."

"What?"

"Yes, and you wouldn't think it of H, he's so stuffy. But when it comes to those two, he loses his inhibitions." He shakes his head.

"Hopefully you charged them to have it cleaned afterwards."

"That's not the point! The point is that they did it on my couch! How am I supposed to look at my patients on that couch now? How am I supposed to counsel _them_? All I'm going to be able to see when I look at them is the memory of their private parts!"

She tries very hard not to laugh. "You could always get another couch."

"That's not helpful," he grumbles.


	64. Chapter 64

"So I suppose everyone's worried about me because I killed myself that one time," Clay begins. "But, I mean, I like to think I had good reason. I was crazy! And I had to get a message to Desmond."

Dr. Wilkerson blinks his large eyes at Clay. "When you say you killed yourself..."

"I mean, I don't think I'm all that much of a suicide risk _now_. I'm not crazy anymore. I'm just saying, it seemed like a very good idea when I was.”

"When you say 'crazy’, what do you mean?"

"Oh, seeing things, thinking I was my long-dead ancestors. But that's all over now. Dying cured it, and getting to meet one of my ancestors. I know _that_ sounds crazy, but it's really him."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I _was_ him for a while, of course I'd know who is and isn't him!" Clay grins. "And he's the real deal, and he looks out for me, too. He's the one who brought me back."

"Brought you back?"

"From death, of course. I mean, I wasn't really _gone_ , I was on the Internet for a couple of years. Know what I hate about the Internet?"

"What?"

"Cat videos."


	65. Chapter 65

"Have you ever felt like they're watching you?" Shaun asks.

"No, have you?" Dr. Wilkerson asks carefully.

"They _are_ ," Shaun tells him. "Well, not you. Me."

"I see. Uh...what makes you think they're watching you?"

"The time they came to my flat with guns after I started exposing them on social media," Shaun tells him promptly.

"I...see." Dr. Wilkerson writes on his notepad.

"It's why I had to leave my job and live on the run. I _was_ a history professor, that's how I started seeing through their web of deception in the first place."

"Um... who are _they_ , exactly?"

"Abstergo, of course. I see the names of their drugs on your office supplies--you do know that's not legal anymore, right?"

The therapist shifts uncomfortably. "Why would Abstergo target you?"

Shaun looks at him like he's crazy. "Because they don't want the truth to get out, obviously! Look, I've talked to...er, other people all over the world who've had the same experience. You can't talk or medicate me out of this, so don't even try."

"All right. So why are you here on my couch then," Dr. Wilkerson asks, defeated.

"Well..." Shaun chews on his lip. "I need help deciding whether to propose to the most amazing woman in existence."

"That's...that's all? Just that?"

"What, paranoid people can't have real life problems, is that what you're trying to say?"

"No, not at all! I'm just...that's so...mundane by comparison."

"We can't all be Kenways. Now can you help me or not?"


	66. Chapter 66

They've been discovered, and their safehouse is no longer safe. Jacob is the first to spot Abstergo, bright red in his Eagle Vision (he was idly spying on the two hot women in the next rowhouse.) He raises the alarm, and the visitors begin a routine that's become sadly familiar.

Luckily, the only child at home is James; the girls are at school this morning. Evie and Desmond take James while Jacob and Arno cover them. Altaïr and Haytham grab all their important papers and computers while Ezio and Aveline gather everyone's most precious personal effects. Connor, Edward, Clay, Shay, and Adéwalé stand ready to protect them. Rebecca and Shaun are on a mission right now, which is unfortunate--they could have used them.

And then Haytham stops, and frowns. Any other man would have cursed, judging by the expression on his face. "The girls! Connor, you must get them from school and take them ahead to the next house."

Connor scowls. "Father, I am here to protect you. Let Edward go and get them, he--"

"No, Connor," Haytham tells him seriously. "There's nobody I trust as I trust you. If I don't make it, if Shay and Aveline don't, I need you to take care of Grace and Geraldine. Now go!"

Connor stares at him, then runs for the smallest car. It's the fastest vehicle they have--Evie and Desmond took the SUV because the car seat was already in it, and they need the van to carry everyone else and their things. He pulls out and zooms for the school just as he sees an Abstergo agent out of the corner of his eye approaching the safehouse. He swears in three languages and drives faster.

Elena is happy to miss her science test later today; Geraldine is sad to leave her friends without saying goodbye; Grace is tense and worried. "Did you bring your princess ears?" she finally asks, about an hour down the highway.

"Ezio packed them, I'm sure," he assures his sister. Elena rolls her eyes.

Grace's face falls. "Maman would have packed them," she says, in a tone that suggests that Ezio can't be trusted with anything so important as Disney World princess mouse ears.

"When we stop to use the bathroom I shall call and make sure they packed my princess ears," Connor soothes her, ignoring the pit that opens in his stomach. He hopes that, when he calls, there will still be an Ezio and an Aveline to ask.

"And Lion," Elena pipes up.

"And my Pokémon games," Geraldine chimes in.

"And my face wash," Elena adds.

"We can always buy more face wash," Connor begins.

"I ordered it off the internet," Elena whines.

Connor reminds himself of the futility of arguing with a teenager. "I am sure Ezio would have understood how important it was to pack it."

After a few minutes, Geraldine complains, "I'm bored," and Grace joins in with "How much longer?"

"Why don't you work on homework?" Connor suggests, eager to ward off boredom that will inevitably lead to hair pulling.

Elena scoffs, "Because we're not _going_ back to that school."

Geraldine asks, "Do you think I'll get in trouble for stealing my math book?"

Grace pipes up, "Can I throw my spelling notebook in the trash when we stop to pee?"

Connor grips the steering wheel tighter. "You will still have to know what you were supposed to be learning. No, you will not get in trouble, Geraldine. And Grace, you must keep your spelling book." Grace and Elena sulk and Geraldine breathes a sigh of relief.

They drive on in silence until Grace's lower lip begins to wobble. "Are Maman and Daddy and Papa going to be there?" she asks in a small voice.

"Yes," Connor tells her firmly. Because he can't imagine a world where his best friends and father can't make it to the next safehouse. "And Grandfather, and he's going to _hate_ it there."

"Why?" Geraldine asks, curiosity piqued.

"I will tell you a secret. Our next home used to be a sheep farm." All three girls giggle until Connor exits the highway to buy fast food for lunch.

* * *

The old farmhouse is creaky and dusty when Connor and the girls get there, and he checks all three floors in his Eagle Vision before he’ll let them out of the car.

"Can we stay in the barn?" Geraldine asks as soon as Connor comes to tell them it's safe.

"No, we will be living in the house," he tells her. "But perhaps Edward can live in the barn."

"Oh, he'll _love_ that," Elena giggles. "Come on, let's go pick our room."

"Is that a real tire swing?" Grace wants to know as she climbs out of the car and stretches her legs.

"We should go for the attic this time," Geraldine reasons. "That way nobody can hear if we're asleep or not."

"They'll hear our footsteps," Elena points out.

"Then we'll just stay in bed awake."

"You know I can hear you," Connor tells them.

Grace looks sweetly up at him. "But you wouldn't tattle on us to Daddy, would you?" Her lip trembles. "I'm your little sister, after all..." Connor tries valiantly not to laugh as all three girls make puppy eyes.

There's nothing to eat in the smelly refrigerator, so Connor shepherds them back into the car to go eat fried chicken at a nearby local fast food chain. It's the best fried chicken he's ever had. They chat through dinner, and Connor never once looks at his phone.

When he drives back to the farmhouse with several chickens' worth of dinner for everyone who's supposed to arrive this evening, he finds the rest of their vehicles packed in the long driveway and everyone in a panic. They're mobbed as soon as they get out of the car with the food.

"You didn't tell us you got here!" Aveline tells Geraldine, squeezing her.

"Mommmmm," Geraldine whines, "We were perfectly safe with Connor."

Shay is hugging Grace. "But we didn't know that. We thought you'd been found by Abstergo, or gotten in an accident."

Haytham stands in front of Connor and Grace, trembling. "You're safe," he says hoarsely. "You're safe, you're here..." He lunges forward and hugs them both tightly like he'll never let go. Grace squeaks as she's crushed between her two dads, and Connor is stiff and clumsy in his father's hug. "I thought I had lost you both," Haytham whispers.

"We are fine, Father," Connor says uncertainly, and Haytham awkwardly lets him go. But he clings to Grace until it's bedtime, on battered mattresses and camp beds that have seen better decades.

* * *

As night falls, Connor stands out on the porch watching the fireflies until Haytham walks up to him. "Thank you."

"For what, Father?"

"For keeping my little girl safe. I trust no one as much as you."

Haytham returns to the house then, and Connor mulls this over in his mind.

How can Haytham trust Connor with Grace's life when he shouldn't even trust him with his own? And yet, he does trust Connor with his own life. He lives in the same house, sleeps in a nearby room, even hugs him.

It goes around and around in his head, and keeps not making sense. Why was Haytham so distraught to see his murderer shot in front of him last year? Why did he abort his own mission to make sure Connor lived? It's all absurd, and Connor knows his father is not an absurd man.

"Ahoy!" Edward says cheerily, wandering out onto the porch, followed by Adéwalé. "I don't need a minder," he insists, poking his former quartermaster. "Connor isn't very fun. He'll keep me from getting into trouble." Adé looks uncertainly from Edward to Connor, then shrugs and returns to the house.

"Are you drunk, Grandfather?" Connor asks.

"Only a tiny, tiny bit," Edward assures him. "It was one nasty old beer in the back of that vile refrigerator. That's not nearly enough to get me half sails over."

"Mm," Connor says noncommittally. They stand in silence for perhaps ten minutes.

"Grandson," Edward begins, leaning on Connor's shoulder.

"Yes, Grandfather?" Connor asks warily, moving his shoulder so that Edward's elbow slides off of it.

"I've been thinking..." Edward trails off. Connor stares. Edward bristles. "I do do that sometimes."

"I never doubted that," Connor tells him loyally, if less than perfectly truthfully.

"When you think of yourself in relation to your father," Edward muses, "all you think about is how you killed him, right?"

Connor shrugs with one shoulder. "It is ever present in my mind," he admits. "It is hard to forget."

Edward shakes his head. "Not that hard. I know for a fact that when Haytham looks at you, all he thinks of is that you're his son."

"His unworthy son who killed him," Connor agrees.

Edward shakes his head again. "No, just his son. Sometimes he thinks of you as the last bit of Ziio left in the world, but sometimes not even that." He smiles at Connor.

Connor shakes his head, disturbed. "But he ought to hate me, Grandfather. Why does he love me instead?"

Edward sighs. "What if Matthew did something terrible, Connor? What if he killed an innocent person?"

"He never did," Connor insists.

"I know, but imagine," Edward suggests.

Connor frowns and closes his eyes. "I am trying to imagine it."

"Would you hate him? Would you turn from him in disgust?"

"I would be...disappointed," Connor allows. "I would wonder what led him to do such a thing, and I would wish he had not."

"But could you ever imagine hating him?" Edward asks.

"No," Connor says slowly.

"Can you ever imagine me hating Haytham?"

"No."

"So if Kenway fathers don't hate their sons, why should your father, who's a Kenway, hate you?" Edward's tone is reasonable, and Connor wants very much to just accept what he's saying.

"Because I killed him."

"You killed an enemy, not even an innocent person," Edward argues. "He doesn't fault you for it. He knew what he was risking with the life he led."

"But it is still wrong that I killed my father. It is even more wrong than if someone else had killed him, because _I_ took him away from myself, because I kept him from--" Connor bites off his words, turning away.

"Because you never got to reconcile with him?" Edward asks softly. "What if he wanted you to kill him?"

"Why would he want that?" Connor asks bitterly. "He was not suicidal. He wanted to live."

Edward perches on the porch railing, which creaks ominously. He ignores it. "What if it was the better of two bad choices, for him?"

"And what was the other choice, if dying was the better one?"

Edward shrugs. "Him killing you. What if it was a relief to him when your blade went in, because then he knew he'd never hurt you?"

Connor crosses his arms defensively. "There must have been some other way."

Edward nods. "But neither of you could see it. Kenway stubbornness."

Connor nods slowly, thinking. "You are saying that letting me kill him was the only way he could see out of that situation?"

Edward nods vigorously. "It wasn't entirely your choice, you know. Achilles wanted you to kill him out of revenge, plain and simple. He told you you had to, and you were young and Achilles was your beloved Mentor, so of course you believed him. And then Haytham didn't want to hurt you, so it made it easy to do what you wouldn't really do if you'd had a chance to think through it yourself. It's what--" The railing collapses just then, and Edward falls onto the ground. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow!" He proceeds to curse the railing, the porch, and the whole sheep farm, while Connor listens and smiles.

"Thank you, Grandfather," he murmurs. Maybe he's not the monster he thinks himself. Maybe Haytham did choose death at Connor's blade, rather than vice versa. And with that, the guilt on his shoulders begins to lighten.

Adéwalé comes out and stares at Edward lying on the grass, then sighs. "You _do_ need a minder, Edward," he says, despairing. "Just look at you."


	67. Chapter 67

It's been years since they lived in this part of the country, but here they are, only an hour's drive from the old safehouse. And only a couple of hours from the two al-Sayf boys Altaïr helped bring to this country so long ago. He's seen them on Skype, and he's texted them several times a week for years. He thinks he knows them as well as any adult can know a teenager. And they seem excited enough when he makes plans with them. Altaïr feels good when he hangs up the phone. Surely he's made a difference in their lives that they're grateful for.

When the day comes, he pulls up to their suburban house with confidence and offers them a rare smile when they get in the car. They smile weakly back at him, and it goes downhill from there.

He takes them to lunch, intending to have a long and meaningful talk about their futures. Instead, Ahmed spends the entire meal with one earbud in, listening to raucous music that Altaïr recognizes as coming from Grace's favorite show about pastel horses. His older brother, Rashid, keeps checking his phone and mumbles one-word answers to Altaïr's questions.

The uncomfortable meal goes on for what seems like forever, but finally it ends, and Altaïr, having tried and failed to interest them in a movie, eventually just takes them back home, disappointed.

Later that evening, in the safehouse, over a game of checkers, Altaïr confides in Connor. "I'd hoped they would...I don't know. I really wanted to tell them...what I believe in, maybe set them on the path to becoming Assassins if they wanted."

Connor thoughtfully takes two of Altaïr's pieces. "You brought them to this country because you wanted them to have good lives, correct?"

Altaïr nods. "There's no chance that they would have had them back home in Syria."

Connor spreads his hands in a "there you have it" gesture. "They are having good lives for this time. They have their electronic devices, their adoptive parents have a nice house."

Altaïr sighs. "I just wanted their lives to have more... _meaning_ , I suppose. I mean, look at Elena. She had a rough start to life, too, and she's become an Assassin. And my sons, too, became Assassins, although Sef stayed close to home and didn't go on missions. But still..."

Connor nods. "But Elena lives in a house full of Assassins and Templars, and your sons grew up in Masyaf itself. It is natural that they'd think about such things. These children have grown up in a standard modern home, therefore their dreams are no different from any other moderately privileged young man's."

Altaïr frowns. "I should have spoken to them of the Assassins before. I should have..."

Connor shakes his head. "Is this not what you wanted for them? An easy life, not marred by violence? They can grow up and be doctors, lawyers, businessmen, or anything else, in safety. And if their lives lead them towards the Assassins, then you can reach out to them."

Altaïr sighs and moves a checker, which Connor promptly takes. "I know. I just...I didn't realize until just now how much I wanted for them to be interested in the things that matter to me."

Connor offers a small smile. "They are teenagers, interested most in figuring out who _they_ are. There is time enough for them to find meaning in life."

Altaïr shakes his head. "How did you become so wise, Connor? Your son followed you into the Assassins, you've never had this disappointment."

Connor frowns, his eyes deeply sad. "And my daughter never wanted to know me. But she found something she loved to do, Matthew told me, and made a good marriage and was happy. That is all I could have hoped for, since I had no part in her life." He sighs and seems to deflate.

Altaïr reaches out to pat Connor's forearm, just once. Connor barely flinches. Altaïr's voice is low and kind as he says, "I am sorry you never got to know her."

Connor shrugs, very obviously hiding his sorrow. "It is done and nothing we can do can change it. If she lived a happy life, it is enough for me, or it will have to be." He takes Altaïr's last checker and rises, going to his room.


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one year visitorversary to me!

Haytham wakes unsure of where, or _when_ , he is. He'd thought that he was past this part of his life, waking up to the sounds of Shay and Aveline. He's gotten old, hasn't he? Well, old _er_ , at least. And died, and come back. Or was it all a dream? Is he waking up in some inn room with Shay back in the 1700s?

Was it all a dream, then, that night with the two of them, right before his death? And again more recently, and...and Grace, his baby girl, is she just a bit of wishful thinking?

Are all his memories just fantasies?

Must he wake to a life of loneliness, of hiding his feelings? It had felt so _good_ in his dream, if dream it was, to admit to his love for the two of them. It had felt spectacular to express that love in, well, much the same way as Shay and Aveline are expressing their love for one another right next to him. _Roll over and join them_ , a deep, deep part of his mind seems to say. _Make love to them both._

Oh, but what if it _is_ a dream? What if he's never actually felt Shay's lips on his, what if he's never actually run his hands over Aveline's curves, what if he's never really heard Shay softly moaning his name, what if he's never felt Aveline's thighs holding him in place as she loves him?

Then does he really want to be awake?

They must think him asleep (somehow, despite their vigorous movements.) and if he feigns slumber, he can continue to hear their soft sighs, to feel the bed shake, to smell the scents of sex and sweat. If they know he's awake, and it was all a dream--well, that'll be the end of him being _this close_ to the two people he dearly loves.

Haytham squints one eye barely open, and he _sees_ them, Aveline pinning Shay down and having her way with him. And maybe he's the only person in the world to be aroused by this sight instead of annoyed by their constant lovemaking, but it's having a definite effect on him.

And then he sees something behind them, blocky red numbers shining brightly, and he almost gasps with relief. Because here they are in the future, and he's really here in their bed, and his daughter is really asleep nearby, and all is well.

"Look who's awake," Shay says, grinning. He extricates one hand from Aveline's tight grip, and reaches out to lace his fingers through Haytham's.

Aveline chuckles breathlessly and stops moving for a moment to lean over and kiss him thoroughly. "Just like old times," she murmurs. "The two of us waking you up...perhaps we should go for a walk?"

"Absolutely not," Haytham says with a smile. "I think you should continue, and then I think I'd like a turn with the both of you."

"We can do that," Shay promises as he moves under Aveline, much to her vocal delight. They continue, with Haytham's need for the two of them growing ever greater. But he waits patiently, and before long, their hands are coaxing and caressing him, beckoning him to bliss he knew but briefly in his life before. And he relaxes into their embrace, gives in to the joy of their joining, loses himself in the pleasure they bring him.


	69. Chapter 69

Rory wakes, his cheeks red, his sheets uncomfortable with sweat. The things he'd been dreaming, though, bother him far more. They're--they're _wrong_ , aren't they? Against nature? 

Rory knows what a man and a woman do in bed together. He's not stupid, and his parents are Shay and Aveline, after all. He's walked in on them several times. And as disgusting as that is, to see his own parents naked, sweating, and moaning, he knows that's how things are meant to be. Man and woman together, and after all, aren't he and his siblings proof that that's how it's meant to be? 

Rory’s dreams, though, don't involve women at all. Instead, they're all about handsome young men he knows. His visitors (but only the male ones). The cook's son. Their neighbor's ne'er-do-well younger brother. Sailors down on the docks. Every night, Rory dreams of a different fellow, and every night, he wakes up with a heavy weight of shame crawling through his stomach. 

There's nobody he can talk to about it. His parents are so madly in love with one another that they'd never understand his deviant desires. Philippe is so _normal_ that he's probably never had an unconventional thought in his life. Jeanne and Tomas are too young to even understand. 

It's not like he can talk to most of his visitors, either. It would be too embarrassing to admit to Matthew or Marcello or especially Darim that he's dreamed about them, and this is exactly the sort of thing that nobody is cruel enough to discuss with Jenny. It would be too weird to talk about with an older Jeanne if she were to visit. Which leaves Jacob and Elena, and although he gets the feeling Jacob would maybe understand, it's with Elena that the subject comes up. 

They're walking through the safehouse Elena currently lives in, when Rory happens to turn and look in an open door. He stops, shocked and embarrassed at the sight, and can't help staring. 

His father is there, with that _other_ Templar, the one that Rory wishes didn't exist and hadn't been in Rory's parents' bed fifteen years ago. Haytham and Shay are very obviously and very intently kissing, and Rory gapes. He has to check to make sure that's _his father_ with one hand on the small of Haytham's back and the other tangled in the Grand Master's hair, but it definitely is Rory's Papa. 

Elena sighs audibly and calls out, “You're supposed to shut the door when you make out!" Haytham, his lips still glued to Shay's, reaches out to slam the door, and Rory jumps, startled. 

"What were they doing?!" he asks voice cracking. 

Elena rolls her eyes. "Honestly, they probably would have had sex with the door open if I hadn't made them close it. Grace does _not_ need to see her dads naked in bed together."

"Her... what?" Rory asks weakly. 

"Well, her father is my Grandpa, but she couldn't very well not call Shay 'Papa', could she?"

"My sister... is Haytham Kenway's daughter?" Rory asks, full of dread. "You mean, they... again?"

Elena rolls her eyes. "All the time," she informs Rory. "Grandpa and Aveline, Grandpa and Shay, all three of them together in the bedroom."

"But... two men?" Rory asks in a very small voice. "Isn't that illegal?"

Elena gives him a strange look. "No, two men or two women can even get married now. Like boy-Jacob and Arno."

"It's... it's all right? It's acceptable to, to want... another..." he trails off, flushing brick red. 

Elena continues to stare at him, then she murmurs, "Oh," and takes a deep breath. "Rory... are you into, you know, do you want other guys?"

Rory looks at his feet and nods slowly. "It seems like... like every man I meet, I have these... these desires for."

Elena pats his shoulder and he startles. "Sorry!" she says quickly. "I just... well, you know, there's nothing wrong with you. And if you're careful, you could find someone to be with, even in your time..." She trails off, then brightens. "I know! You could talk to your father about it."

"He'd never understand," Rory complains. 

"Rory, did you not just see your dad and my grandpa all over each other? Believe me, he'll understand."

Rory shakes his head stubbornly. "No, you don't understand. Papa's a Templar. I can't talk to him about this."

Elena stares at him. "Rory, he's your _father_! It doesn't matter if he's a Templar, I know he loves you and he'd want to help you. Tell you what, I'll bring it up to him and this way you don't have to be embarrassed." She makes a face. "This is a big sacrifice on my part, I'll have you know."

But Rory is adamant that she not talk to his father, and after arguing for fifteen minutes she throws up her hands in frustration. "Fine! I can't believe you'd rather suffer than have somebody to talk to, or that you'd rather avoid your own father than talk to a _Templar_!"

"I think you live with too many Templars," Rory snaps. "You've forgotten how awful they are! Next you're going to leave the Assassins and join them like my father the traitor!"

Elena doesn't talk to him after that for the rest of the visit. He spends the time dwelling on his embarrassing dreams.


	70. Chapter 70

Shay clears his throat, and Shaun looks up from his computer. "Yes?"

"Are there college professors who are Assassins?" Shay blurts out. "Other than you? Ones that are actually at colleges? Or... Assassin allies?"

Shaun gives him a wary look. "You do remember that you're a Templar, right? I'm not sure how much Aveline tells you, but I'm not exactly going to provide--"

Shay sighs. “ _I_ don't care. It's for Geraldine.”

Shaun still looks suspicious. "Geraldine? Why?"

"She wants to go to college. Aveline is worried that, if she leaves the Assassins to go to school, Abstergo will kidnap her while she's vulnerable."

Shaun gives Shay a thoughtful look. "And what do you think?"

Shay shrugs. "I think she shouldn't have to leave the Assassins to go to school. If there's another Assassin around, maybe she'll be safe enough."

Shaun thinks for a long moment. "Can she get into an Ivy League school? I know someone in the history department that could watch over her."

Shay grins with relief. "I think she could get into any school she wanted. At least that's what her guidance counselor at school says."

Shaun nods. "I'll talk to her about it.”

* * *

"Shay..." Aveline begins in her "come look down my shirt so I can murder you" voice. "Have you been _talking_ to Geraldine?" Haytham, sitting on the bed with Marco in his lap, takes one look at Aveline's furious expression and covers the cat protectively with his hands.

Shay clearly knows what this is about, because he sets his shoulders and says stubbornly, "And why shouldn't I? She's my daughter too."

Aveline scowls. "You swore you wouldn't interfere in Assassin business. Just like I've kept out of Templar affairs."

Shay folds his arms across his broad chest. "Well, it's not exactly Assassin business, now is it?"

Aveline scoffs. "It _is_. And you went behind my back after I had already talked to her about it."

Shay shrugs. "Seems to me it's not the sort of thing you should talk to only one person about."

Aveline picks up a college brochure and shakes it at Shay. "You're filling her head with dreams of things that will get her captured or worse, Shay. I'm just trying to keep her safe."

Shay grabs the flyer and hands it to Haytham, then turns back to Aveline. "I talked to Shaun already. The head of the history department is an Assassin ally."

Aveline rolls her eyes. "That man's in his sixties and not trained to fight."

Shay takes her hands gently. "Not everything is a fight, Aveline."

She sighs and squeezes his hands. "Shay, I don't want our little girl to get hurt. And Abstergo would love to hurt her."

Shay smiles a little. "But Aveline, can't you understand her wanting to leave the Assassins? I mean, I remember a time you came to me to talk over a similar decision..."

Aveline sighs again and strokes Shay's cheek with a fond smile. "And you didn't tell me to leave."

Shay shakes his head. "Nor did I tell Geraldine to leave. But I understand wanting to." He kisses her hand and adds, "Besides, I'm trying to make it so she can follow her dreams without _having_ to leave. Then later she can decide if she wants to or not."

"I think she does want to. Putting it off isn't likely to change her mind. You know how she is. And you know how Abstergo will go after her."

Shay nods. "The world would be a better place without Abstergo."

"Yes, it would..." Aveline says slowly. "Shay, are you close to ridding the world of Abstergo? Haytham?"

Both men shake their heads, and Haytham says, "We don't have nearly enough people. There are just too many of them."

"What if..." Aveline asks in a faraway voice. "What if we worked together? Assassins and Templars, to destroy Abstergo?"

"Well," Haytham says slowly, "it would certainly help. The Assassins have certain strengths we Templars could use a hand with."

"And without Abstergo, Geraldine could do whatever she wanted," Shay says, excited. "As long as the Assassins wouldn't retaliate like they did to me."

Aveline waves that away. "Times have changed. Besides, I don't think she'd be going to the Templars, she'd just be leaving." She sighs. "Although I did like sharing this with her."

Shay hugs her tenderly. "She won't stop being our daughter just because she no longer wants to be an Assassin." Haytham gets up and joins in the hug wordlessly, and Aveline hugs them back, leaning her head on Haytham's shoulder.

"You're right, of course," she says.


	71. Chapter 71

Rory blinks, disoriented. He was in his bedroom, trying to figure out how to clean his sheets in the middle of the night, but now he's down the hallway, and...yes, there's Jeanne. She looks older than him, twenty or so, and he falls in behind her as she walks with their father. They go to Jeanne's room, and her eyes flick to Rory as she turns around and sits on the bed, but she shows no other sign of seeing him. Of course, their father doesn't know in this lifetime that they have visitors.

"Thank you for talking to me, Papa," she says, sounding uncharacteristically subdued.

"Of course, Jeanne," Shay says, seating himself in the chair at her desk. "What's bothering you?"

Jeanne knits her fingers together; it's an uncharacteristically nervous gesture for a young woman who always seems so sure of herself. "Papa..." She takes a deep breath. "I think...I think there may be something wrong with me."

Shay's brow furrows, and he half rises from his chair. "Are you unwell?"

Jeanne shakes her head, then shrugs. "I don't know. I mean..."

"Jeanne, you can't be sick!" Rory almost yells. What would he do without his aggravating little sister?

Jeanne licks her lips and frowns, obviously thinking over her words. "I'm well enough in body, but..." She looks beseechingly at Shay. "I think I'm in love."

Shay's face clears, and he half-smiles. "You are?"

"But..." Jeanne looks down at her knees. "She's an Assassin," she says in a small voice.

"You're in love with an Assassin?" Rory asks, incredulous.

"An Assassin?" Shay asks, smiling. "Well, there's nothing wrong with that-- _she_?" His smile fades.

"Papa..." Jeanne breathes, near tears.

Shay gets up and goes to sit by her on the bed. "Jeanne, I am beyond happy that you're in love."

"You're--you're like me?" Rory asks, in shock. Jeanne nods fractionally as Shay continues.

"And I can hardly say anything about loving an Assassin, can I?" he asks with a smile. He reaches to hug her. "And I was--well, I _am_ in love with a man, though I see him only on visits as he's dead now," he adds sadly. "So I can hardly see you as awful for loving a woman, now can I?"

Jeanne stares at him, shocked, and Rory can see the thoughts running through her head. Her eyes widen as she presumably arrives at a conclusion, and she hugs him tightly. "Truly, Papa, you're not angry with me?"

"Truly," Shay promises, smiling. "Can I meet this Assassin woman who's stolen your heart?"

"I don't know," Jeanne hedges. "She lives far away. I met her on a mission."

Rory can tell that's a lie, and he's not sure what she's hiding. Unless she's...

"Well, let me know what she’s like, at least," Shay presses. "So if I go on a mission and see her I won't hurt her." Rory almost snorts; their father hasn't gone on a mission in years.

Jeanne frowns thoughtfully. "She's got brown hair, hazel eyes...um...she dresses as a man..." She adds dreamily, "She's got the most wondrous cheekbones. And a strong chin. She's older than me..." She trails off.

Shay chuckles and hugs her. "Duly noted. And you're careful that nobody sees you?"

Jeanne nods. "We're very careful, Papa." She adds shyly, "This is why I've never been interested in any of the nice young Templar men you've introduced me to."

Shay grins. "Because they were men, or because they were Templars?"

Jeanne giggles and kisses her father's grizzled cheek. He leaves, and she turns to glare at Rory. "Don't. Say. A word."

Rory holds up his hands in surrender. "I didn't know you were like me."

Jeanne sighs loudly. "Oh, Rory, can't you see that we're more alike than different?"

"In this one way, maybe, but not in others," he insists stubbornly.

Jeanne rolls her eyes. "I bet _you_ wouldn't talk to Papa about it."

"You're right," Rory tells her belligerently.

"Then you're a fool," Jeanne says bluntly. "Papa _understands_. You heard him. He's loved a man."

"I knew that, I've known it for years, ever since I saw him kissing...you know, _Haytham Kenway_ , while I was visiting Elena. And," Rory adds gloomily, " _he_ even was there doing stuff with Maman and Papa when I was conceived. Elena _saw_ it. Well, she heard them talking to him."

Jeanne looks at him, and _laughs_. Laughs! "Oh Rory, you were just doomed to have an ironic life, weren't you?"

"It's not funny," he mutters.


	72. Chapter 72

James Miles likes to think he's grown up now. After all, he no longer drums on things with Geraldine's knitting needles. He talks about serious things on his fishing trips with Grandpa. And last week, he even told off Uncle Jacob for that thing he was about to do with the shaving cream.

The point is, James is sixteen years old and that's more than old enough to know what he wants to do with his life. And he does know.

"Dad," he says one day while they're watching some dumb sitcom, "I know what I want to be when I grow up."

Desmond assures him, "James, you don't have to decide. Not yet."

James insists, "But Dad, I know I'm ready."

Desmond half-smiles. "Like when you thought you were ready to watch that show about the Borgias on Netflix?"

His cheeks burn. "Dad! That's different. Besides, that was two years ago. I'm much older now."

Desmond nods seriously. "True. Sixteen is much older than fourteen."

James bristles. "It is! I'm much more grown up."

Desmond nods. "All right. So what _do_ you want to be, then?" He's expecting professional fisherman, maybe, or model car designer, or host of an immature adult humor show, or--he's not sure, but not:

"I want to be a Templar."

Desmond actually chokes on his own saliva at this point, and gasps for air. "You what?"

"A Templar. Like Grandpa."

Desmond stares, dumbfounded. "Really?"

"Yeah!" James is starting to get just a little annoyed now. "I want to make the world a better place."

"As a Templar?!" Desmond feels bad for the note of incredulity in his voice, but he can't help it. "James, son, you don't have to be an Assassin like me and your mother, but..."

James sets his jaw stubbornly, an expression that would look perfectly at home on Evie's face. "Do you even talk to Grandpa about what he does? He works hard to help people and make life better for people."

Desmond frowns. He tries not to pry in what his dad is doing; he's long ago come to the conclusion that he'd just be tempted to meddle, or worse, use the information against the Templars. James rushes on, unaware that his father is lost in thought. "--and without Grandpa and Shay there would be people literally starving to death in the streets. And I've met some of Grace's Templar friends, and they're--they're _nice_ , Dad, they're nice people."

"I'm not saying they're not," Desmond says carefully, "but you know, the Assassins do good work too. We help people."

"Dad," James draws out the word to three or four syllables. "The Assassins hide in the shadows all the time. Look at how we live. Running from safehouse to safehouse? I'm tired of that. I want to be a _part_ of things. I want to _stay_ somewhere." He nods decisively.

Desmond becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open, and that James is looking at him with eyes full of a fragile hope that Desmond can't bear to crush. "I--all right."

"All right, what?"

"All right. If you want to be a Templar, be the best Templar you can be." Desmond remembers, distantly, being sixteen and knowing without a doubt that he didn't want to be an Assassin. He remembers wanting to get _away_ from the life he'd grown up in. "You're not, ah...you don't hate your mom and me, do you?"

James rolls his eyes. " _Dad_. Of course I don't hate you and Mom! I just want a different kind of life."

Desmond hugs James despite his squirming. "Your mom's gonna yell, you know."

"Duh. That's why I went to you first." James smiles hesitantly. "Do you think you could--"

"Oh no you don't," Desmond tells him with a grin, shaking his head. "Think of it as your first test as a Templar, facing your fearsome Assassin mother."

James sighs. "I knew you'd say no."


	73. Chapter 73

Connor is unsure how he's supposed to relate to Geraldine. Shay and Aveline's first four children had called him Uncle Connor, had seen him as an authority figure, a third parent of sorts, someone who cared deeply about their welfare but also deserved respect. Rory, especially, had always looked up to him, as an Assassin and mentor in addition to being his parents' closest friend.

Connor had been more than willing to serve in the same capacity for Geraldine. But then Haytham had joined Aveline and Shay in bed, had fathered Grace, had become the literal third parent in their little family. And Connor knows he's Grace's brother, is (finally) more or less comfortable in that role. But he can hardly be Grace's brother and Geraldine's uncle at the same time, can he?

He knows his father has some of the same problem relating to Geraldine. But part of it is that Haytham isn't entirely comfortable with his role in Shay and Aveline's marriage. They are more than willing to involve him in child rearing, but Haytham is thoroughly uncertain of himself in that regard (and isn't that Connor's fault, really?)

But Connor is unwilling to deprive Geraldine of the closeness he's shared with all her siblings, so even though he's not sure how to categorize it, he's there for her. He helps her learn to ride her tricycle while their sister is squalling from the pain of teething. He give her a vintage set of encyclopedias for her eighth birthday, which delights her immensely. ("It's like Wikipedia in a _book_!") And when she turns ten and announces, "I want to be an Assassin like Connor," he beams with pride.

After two years of college, she comes to him. "Connor," she says, her voice shaky. "I...I definitely don't want to be an Assassin anymore. Please don't be angry."

He blinks. "I am not angry, Geraldine." He awkwardly hugs her, and she bursts into tears, stumbling through a long explanation of her studies and her plans. There's no _room_ for the Assassins in her life, he realizes.

"...and Maman is afraid for me, I know, but I can't stay just to be _safe_."

Connor hugs her again. "I will make sure Abstergo leaves you alone."

She blinks tearfully at him. "Really?"

He nods. "I will monitor their activities. And my father, and your father, will do so as well," he promises. "You shall have Assassins and Templars both keeping you safe."

"Thank you," she whispers, nearly crying again. "Thank you so much, Connor."


	74. Chapter 74

Haytham paces back and forth in the small room he shares with his father. There's some sort of Assassin business going on out in the living room, and his enemy is no longer the Assassin Brotherhood. Well...at least, not this branch. The point being, he's not going to spy on their business, hence he's cloistered himself in his room. Shay is out shopping for baby paraphernalia, so Haytham doesn't even have him to talk to.

He tries and fails to read a book, looks over his plans for his and Shay's next mission for the hundredth time, and stares blankly out the window. It's in the middle of this last activity that his phone rings.

It's a number he doesn't recognize, so at first he doesn't even consider picking it up. Then he reflects that anything, even a telemarketer, is better than being so isolated and bored, and he clumsily taps the green circle. "Hello?"

A man’s rough voice asks him perfunctorily, “Will you accept a call from a Connor?”

“Yes, of course,” Haytham says in surprise, and waits for Connor.

"Father. May I have your assistance on a small matter?"

"Of course," Haytham says. The last he'd heard, his son was out on Assassin business. "Is it related to your mission?"

There's a long pause. Connor finally admits, "I have been arrested, and I need your help."

"Arrested? For what?" Haytham has no illusions about his son's vocation and only hopes he isn't facing murder charges.

"Trespassing," Connor snaps. "I was _not_. I was welcomed by the tribe."

This is where Haytham starts to wonder just how much he _can_ help his son. "I'm not sure how much I can do with tribal affairs," he hedges.

Connor huffs. "The _Dakota_ have not arrested me. They, too, were arrested. For trespassing! On their sliver of land!"

A voice breaks in, startling Haytham. "Hurry up and finish talking to your father, you only get five minutes." He's shocked by the bored antipathy in the police officer's voice.

"Where can I find you?" he asks urgently. Connor names a tiny town.

* * *

Haytham waits uncomfortably at the police station. He's seen Connor in prison before, of course, and being at this tiny jail in the station reminds him uncomfortably of the time he had literally signed his son's death warrant.

He arrives bearing money siphoned from Abstergo, not that he expects he'll have to use it. At least, not all of it.

"Are they treating you well?" he asks Connor through the phone as they stare at each other through the glass. Connor looks awful in orange.

A half-shrug. "It is not like some prison from the eighteenth century. There is indoor plumbing."

Haytham blinks. Did his son just make a joke? "I've retained a lawyer on your behalf," he begins.

Connor interrupts. "It is not I who needs the lawyer."

"Have they set a trial date?" Haytham continues, after a confused pause.

"Father, I know you mean well, but I stand with my people, and it is they who need the legal assistance."

Haytham frowns, frustrated. "But son, I'm here to help _you_ get out. You have important work to do, I know."

Connor nods. "As do they. They are protecting their homes, and there is no more important job than that."

"And you're helping them." It all makes sense now; Connor, who lost his village, helping another tribe with their struggle. "What do you want me to do, if not get you out?"

Connor half-smiles. "It will require large sums of cash. I will see what I can get from...my friends, but more is better."

"But what is going on, son?" Haytham asks, confused. "Is it a land grab?"

"No," Connor replies, sitting up straight, anger in his eyes. "There is an oil pipeline that a company is planning to run through the reservation, where it will pollute their water and befoul their land. Any leaks, and there will be leaks, will ruin rivers all the way to the Mississippi."

Haytham stares, dumbfounded. "And they think this is useful and acceptable why?"

Connor shrugs with one shoulder. "Gasoline will be cheap enough for people to commute unnecessarily long distances for work, wasting valuable time that could be spend with their families, and destroying the Earth."

"All that aside--"

"We indigenous people are poor and have little power. If I have access to money, I would prefer to use it to help my people. Once I might not have called the Dakota my people, but I have learned our struggle is the same."

Haytham puts his hand against the clear divider, and after a moment's hesitation, Connor matches the gesture. "Your struggles are my struggles, son. I will find the money for a superior team of lawyers. In the meantime, would you like to get out on bail?"

Connor smiles a little. "Is there enough for all of us?"

Haytham nods. "Then it's settled." He turns away and calls for the warden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set NOW. The oil pipeline and the indigenous tribes protesting it are [real](http://sacredstonecamp.org/dakota-access-pipeline/). The protesters _are_ being [arrested](https://fsrn.org/2016/09/dozens-of-dakota-access-pipeline-protesters-arrested-in-n-dakota-and-iowa/) for trespassing, and [attacked by dogs](https://www.facebook.com/democracynow/videos/10154446432358279/). Connor would want you all to [help](http://sacredstonecamp.org/faq/#howtohelp) in some way, whether by donating to the [camp](http://www.gofundme.com/sacredstonecamp), the [legal defense fund](https://fundrazr.com/d19fAf), or even just signing a [petition](https://petitions.whitehouse.gov/petition/stop-construction-dakota-access-pipeline-which-endangers-water-supply-native-american-reservations).


	75. Happy birthday, Shay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ah, this is fairly explicit. If that's not your thing, I'm not offended...

This is bliss, Haytham thinks, wrapping a leg around Shay's as they lie in a sweaty heap on the bed. The feel of Shay's skin, the taste of his sweat, even the smell of their recent lovemaking, all swirl together into an almost perfect moment.

But he does have one concern. "Shay," he murmurs, "is this good for you like it is for me?"

Shay kisses his shoulder. "Oh, yes, sir. Amazing." He runs his tongue along Haytham's ear and sighs contentedly.

"But surely," Haytham persists, "you'd like it more if...if..." he trips over his tongue and feels his cheeks burning as he tries to force the words out. "If you were, er, on top."

Shay blinks. "I've never thought about it," he admits tentatively. "You're so wonderful to me. Plus, you're the Grand Master." He waves a hand vaguely, a sort of well-obviously-then gesture.

Haytham frowns. "But that shouldn't affect _us_. Remember, in here we're just Shay and Haytham."

Shay kisses him deeply, and smiles tenderly. "We are. And Shay likes having Haytham inside him."

"Yes, but..." Haytham twines his fingers through Shay's, and mumbles, "maybe Haytham would like it just as much to have _Shay_ inside _him_."

Shay sits up, looking down at Haytham in surprise. "Do you really mean it, sir?"

Haytham bites his lip and nods. "I'd like to try," he murmurs, squeezing Shay's hand. "I'd like you to take me. I'd like to be _yours_ , Shay, as you're mine."

A grin is slowly spreading across Shay's face, lighting up his dark eyes. "Oh, _sir_. Yes, of course." He kisses Haytham passionately, and slides a hand down his back, stroking purposefully. Haytham lets out a small sigh and spreads his legs to allow Shay free rein.

"Sir," Shay remonstrates after a minute or two, "you've got to _relax_ , or it'll hurt."

"I _am_ relaxed," Haytham insists, and Shay shakes his head.

"Not enough. Maybe if I...here, turn over, I'll rub your back." He strokes Haytham fondly as they reposition themselves.

"So it won't hurt?" Haytham asks with trepidation.

"Not if you relax and I treat you right, which I will."

"And you'll...you'll still respect me just as much afterwards?"

Shay chuckles lightly. "There's nothing that you _could_ do that would make me lose respect for you, sir." He begins by rubbing Haytham's tight shoulders.

It's nice, Haytham thinks, to feel Shay's weight straddling his thighs, to feel his lover leaning close over his back. To feel Shay's brawny hands rubbing away aches he didn't even know he had. It's soothing, but at the same time, he's very aware of how aroused Shay is, how hard against his thighs, and he shivers to think that in a few minutes Shay will be _in_ him.

"Sir?" Shay asks, worried, and Haytham clears his throat.

"Please, Shay, continue. It feels wonderful. _You_ feel wonderful."

He can imagine Shay blushing as he redoubles his efforts with his hands, and Haytham sighs happily as he feels himself slowly unwind. Shay moves his hands down to the small of Haytham's back, and he feels like he could almost float away, like only Shay's weight is keeping him anchored to the bed.

And then Shay moves farther down yet, and Haytham can't help but tense up.

"Sir," Shay murmurs, "I'm not going to hurt your lovely arse."

"Lovely?" Haytham manages to ask. His mouth is dry, his voice unsteady.

"It's part of you, and you are lovely," Shay assures him. "I just want to show you what I'd like to do with such a particularly fine arse as you have." He slips in between Haytham's thighs, teasing, causing Haytham to catch his breath and moan softly. Shay refocuses his attentions, and his insistent fingers, on relaxing him.

It's not like Haytham doesn't already know, in a general sort of way, what this feels like. After all, Aveline is quite forward with her fingers. But never before has he known Shay's touch coaxing him open, Shay's weight pinning him down, Shay's slicked-up finger slipping in and stroking him. He reaches over his shoulder for a kiss that Shay returns hungrily.

"Sir," Shay whispers. "I want you. I want you all around me, I want you to clench me tight."

"Yes," Haytham moans brokenly. Shay's finger feels amazing, but he doesn't feel _filled_. And right now, more than anything else, he wants Shay to fill him up. "Yes, please, yes." He hears the splat of a bottle and the slippery noise of lube being spread, and then he whimpers because Shay's finger is _gone_ and he feels completely and utterly empty.

It's only a few seconds before he feels Shay moving against him again, dragging from the back of his thighs upwards to slip in with a gentle pressure. Haytham buries his face in the pillow to shut out the rest of the world, to feel nothing but this joy, this miracle of becoming one with Shay. His hands are clenching the sheets, his feet digging into the mattress.

"Breathe, sir," Shay tells him lightly, working his way in deeper. Haytham responds incoherently, arching his back eagerly, trying to take in as much of Shay as possible. He finally feels Shay's hips against his back, and _oh,_ he's _almost_ deep enough.

Shay gently nudges Haytham's legs farther apart, and then Haytham feels him move against his thighs, and _yes_ he is spectacularly _deep enough_ inside. Distantly, Haytham realizes he's making quite a lot of noise, he's vaguely aware that he's begging for Shay to take him harder, and Shay happily obliges.

Every part of his being is full of Shay, every inch of his body is Shay's to do with as he pleases, and Haytham right now cannot imagine feeling any other way. He barely feels the nip of Shay's teeth at his shoulder, so focused is he on the pleasure that seems to be radiating from deep inside him to the tip of every limb, and when Shay takes him in hand and strokes in counterpoint to his thrusts, it doesn't take Haytham long at all to reach climax, a sputtering stuttering thing that leaves him sprawled on the bed with Shay still vigorously pumping. It almost burns when Shay finishes, but Haytham is glad for it; if this is all that remains of Shay inside him, he'll take it.

They lie still for a moment, panting from the exertion, and then Shay murmurs, "I love you," and Haytham responds, "And I you." Then they're kissing, long and slow and deep, and they don't stop until exhaustion washes over them and they cuddle up together to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Shay's 285th birthday! And for his birthday, he gets to bugger the Grand Master.


	76. Chapter 76

Shay distrusts the Animus and hates Helix, but ever since Haytham found out Owen's... _Kyle's_ birthday, Shay's been going to Animus Island once a year to wish him a happy birthday. They make awkward small talk about the island, Shay tells him about his life and the children, and Owen asks him if Haytham is bleeding again. Eventually, the stilted conversation runs out. Shay suspects Aveline's yearly visits are equally as uncomfortable. But they soldier on, because he's family.

But this year, Shay can tell by the worried look on Owen's face that something is different. "Happy--"

"You'd better get out of here, quick," Owen warns.

"Why?" Shay asks, surprised.

"They re-released _Liberation_." Owen looks at Shay significantly, as if this is supposed to mean a lot to him.

"Aye?" Shay asks cluelessly.

"So a lot more people are bleeding--"

"Aveline!" Shay says, surprised. Usually she doesn't go to Animus Island at the same time as him; it's too much for Owen. But something is _off_ about her.

"Shay!" she says, and runs up to plant a kiss on his lips.

"That's not Aveline," Owen tells him grimly as another Aveline appears, and Shay realizes that she's dressed as she did in their first lifetime together. The first Aveline is wearing her Assassin clothes, and this new one is in her slave guise. Another Aveline appears in a fancy lady's gown, and runs her fingertips appreciatively along Shay's arm.

"What's going on?" Shay asks weakly as two more Avelines converge on him.

Owen sighs. "A lot of people have been playing _Liberation_ now it's been re-released. Which means a lot of people are bleeding Aveline."

Shay makes a distressed noise as the Avelines converge on him. He feels a feather-light touch on his rear end, and he's honestly not sure whether he's being violated or just pickpocketed.

Owen is staring at him with equal parts amusement and jealousy. "You're like shark bait to them."

One of the Avelines strokes his cheek. "I hope you're understanding that I won't hurt you," she says, and Shay blanches. When he doesn't respond with the codeword, she sighs sadly.

"You know," Owen observes, "some men would take advantage of this throng of young women and/or men throwing themselves at you."

"Well, I'm not those men," Shay says, trying to back away from the dozen or more Avelines.

"I know," Owen says with a sad little sigh. "Boy, do I know."

Shay nearly trips over a couple of Avelines behind him, and looks wildly to Owen for help. "Please get me out of here!"

Owen sighs, closes his eyes, and concentrates. And then Shay's in the loading screen, and he's able to tear off the Helix headset. He sits there a moment, trying to calm his racing heart, before he goes to tell Aveline what's happened. She's more amused than sympathetic.


	77. Chapter 77

"Daddy!" Grace sobs, climbing into Haytham's lap. "Connor got us kicked out of the princess store! How will I ever be a princess for Halloween?"

Haytham is too astonished, at first, to say anything. "Connor?" he manages at last. " _Connor_ got you kicked out of a store?"

She nods, tears streaming down her face. "Yeah."

Haytham just has to check again. "Connor. Your brother. Not your Grandpa Edward?"

Grace wails semi-articulately, "I wasn't at the _mall_ with Grandpa!"

He wraps his arms around his daughter, rubbing her back soothingly. "And you're sure Connor was the reason you got kicked out?"

She snuggles close to her father. "Yes, the manager said he was dis--dis--"

Haytham, disbelieving, asks, "Disruptive? Is that the word he used?"

"Yeah. That's what he said." Grace breaks out into fresh sobs. "And now I won't get to be a princess for Halloween!"

He rocks her gently--she's not too old for it to help--and makes what he hopes are soothing shushing noises. "You will be a princess for Halloween, I promise, if I have to make your costume myself."

Grace giggles weakly. "You don't sew, Daddy."

"I'll learn," Haytham tells her firmly. "But first I have to go talk to your brother." He gives her a kiss on the forehead and nudges her off his lap, then goes looking for Connor.

Connor is in his bedroom, typing what looks and sounds like an angry email. Haytham is a little worried that Connor's furiously working fingers are going to go right through his laptop. But he stops when he hears the door creak. "Yes?"

Haytham sits on the bed, unsure how to begin. Finally, he says, "Grace says you were thrown out of the princess store."

Connor makes a noise of unhappy disgust. "Yes."

"Do you want to, ah, talk about it?" Haytham ventures.

Connor turns around in his chair and glares at his father. "They had an extremely offensive costume."

"Pocahontas?" Haytham guesses.

Connor shakes his head and brushes that away. "No. I mean, yes, but this was much worse."

"How so?"

Connor sighs. "Do you remember that movie from a few years ago, loosely based on the culture of the indigenous people of the South Pacific?"

"All right," Haytham says, nodding. "I can already see where you would be annoyed, but go on."

Connor's voice is angry and tight. "They decided to make a costume of the character Maui. The great hero and sometimes demigod of the South Pacific. The costume looks--" he taps at his computer and brings up a picture, "--as if they _skinned_ him and you can _wear his skin_." He shudders.

"I'm sure they didn't intend--" Haytham begins.

"Father. Would they do this for a costume of a black man?" Connor asks simply. "No. But indigenous people--you know, they used to skin _my people_ and wear them as _leggings_." He shudders in disgust. " _Washington's_ men did that... And now someone mass-produces a facsimile of it for children to--ugh!"

Haytham stares at Connor for a long moment, then sighs. "I often wonder what would have happened if your mother had used the blade of her knife on that man, not the handle."

Connor bites his lip and looks at the floor. Finally, he continues, "So I am writing an angry email about the costume. Perhaps I will start a petition as well, or start a boycott. These are the tools of the modern day, after all."

Haytham nods. "I will sign your petition, son. And I suppose we can get Grace a princess costume elsewhere--isn't there a Halloween store at the mall?"

Connor rolls his eyes. "We went there first. They have the most offensive Indian costumes imaginable. They made my skin crawl. I was going to complain to the mall owners."

Haytham throws up his hands in defeat. "What am I to do? Learn how to sew?"

Connor smiles slightly. "Yes."


	78. Chapter 78

When Rory was young, he'd always sworn he'd never name a child of his after a Templar. Now he's done exactly that, and he couldn't care less. Patrick is his entire life, from the moment he wakes in the morning until his last feeding at night. Luckily, one of his fellow Assassins has just given birth and when he begs her to feed the baby, she is more than helpful. She also smells a lot better than the goat he had bought, and shared his cabin with, on the trip over the Atlantic. That was a nightmare of stench, between the goat, his vomit, and all the mess that Patrick made. Still, Rory wouldn't trade it for anything, and he's already starting to think of Patrick as _his son_ , after sleeping every night curled around the baby.

He looks enough like Rory, too, now that his skin is tanning a little. By some happy accident, he's got exactly Rory's chin and eyebrows, and his hair, once it grows in, is just a shade lighter. Sometimes he wonders what the boy's real parents look like, tries to tell himself that they're most likely both templars and he shouldn't care, Patrick is better off with him.

Aveline adores him, makes every excuse to cradle him in her shaking arms. Tomas is only a little interested, but manages to stick him with the nickname Paddy. Philippe seems to like him, and gives Rory lots of pompous parenting advice concerning bedtimes and discipline and whatever else that Rory tunes out. Philippe's two children are miniatures of their father, and Rory really hopes that Patrick doesn't turn out like them. Perhaps that's wrong, but he wants his son to care about what's _important_ in life--freedom, and justice, and making the world a better place. Not money and possessions and marginal profit and _coffee_.

When Jeanne returns from her top secret mission, looking haggard and drawn--Rory hopes it was a complete failure and set the Templars back tremendously--she won't even look at Patrick, even though he can crawl now. "I heard you have a son," she says, her voice dead. She adds, "Congratulations," but it sounds more like _I hate you_. Rory bristles; can't Jeanne even be happy for him? He knows, from visits, that she's spent much of her time crying over the past few months, when she's not desperately searching for something she won't tell him about, and he wonders briefly what's bothering her, then decides it's some Templar thing that would probably infuriate him if he knew about it.

"Don't worry about her, Patrick," he tells his son, kissing his soft little belly before pinning a clean diaper on. "Your aunt is mad. She's a Templar, you know, like your mother." And suddenly he feels bad for his son's unknown mother; what if she was one of the Templars who wasn't so bad, like his sister? And he whispers, "I suppose not all Templars are so bad. Your grandfather was one, and your aunt is, and don't ever tell her but I kind of miss her." It's true; Jeanne really hasn't been the same since her yearlong secret mission. She barely talks to anyone, hasn't gone out to do Templar things, and doesn't even do her daily weapons practice. Rory misses when they used to spar, physically and verbally; the last time he tried to wind her up in an argument, she burst into tears and ran into her room.

One day, when Rory is holding Patrick's hand as he takes unsteady steps in the hallway, Jeanne stomps past, upsetting the baby. Before she slams her door, Rory distinctly hears her say, "How come you get to have _your_ baby and I don't get _mine_?" It makes no sense to him, but that night, as he lies awake in bed, it begins to make a horrible kind of sense.

Jeanne had been gone for a year.

What if--no, no, it couldn't be. First off, Rory knows perfectly well that Jeanne is married to Jacob, who is doubly unable to give her a child, being a visitor and a woman. They haven't split up; he's seen her holding Jeanne's hand tightly as she walks around the house and yard.

Second, it's just impossible. Why would French Assassins have stolen a baby Jeanne couldn't possibly have had, only to return him to Rory? Why would Jeanne have gone to France to have a baby she couldn't have had in the first place?

Third, and he doesn't like to admit it even to himself, he just doesn't want to have to give Patrick up. The boy is charming and adorable, the best thing ever to happen to Rory, even better than becoming an Assassin. He can't imagine a future without the baby he thinks of as his son.

And for some months, he can push down his fears and doubts. But one day, Patrick looks up at him, and he realizes he's seen that exact expression many a time, on Jeanne's face when she used to look at Shay.

That night, he slips out of bed, careful not to wake his son, and slips into Jeanne's room. She's sitting up in bed, crying on Jacob's shoulder.

"Hey," he murmurs. "It's just me."

"Come to taunt me?" Jeanne asks warily. "The weak little Templar crying in bed?"

He shakes his head. "Come to ask you a question." He gulps. "Did you have a son?" He has to raise his voice above her sudden sobs. "In-in France?"

"Don't rub it in!" she howls, as Jacob holds her tight.

"Rory, I think you'd better go," Jacob says, starting to get angry.

"No! No, I need to--listen, Jeanne, did three Assassins steal him from you?"

"Yes," Jeanne bawls.

"Three? Exactly three?" It can't be. How could they?

"Yes! What does it matter? Three or three hundred, what does it matter, they stole him and I couldn't stop them!"

"Rory..." Jacob warns.

"Listen, Jeanne. I...I know where your son is."

" _What_?! You knew all this time?" Jeanne's eyes blaze with anger.

"No, I didn't know he was yours!" Rory tells her quickly, arms raised defensively over his face. "Listen to me, Jeanne! He's, he's Patrick. Patrick's your son. Patrick. He's here, right in my room. There was no girl, I went on a mission and--"

" _You stole my son_?!" Jeanne half-rises out of bed, ready to claw at him.

"No! I didn't steal him! I love him, I didn't steal him! I swear! Someone else stole him and, and other Assassins, they tried to find you but they didn't know who his mother was--ow!"

Jeanne is hitting him, hard, but not as hard as he knows she can. "You've had my son all this time and you, you let me ignore him!"

Rory ducks out of her reach. "I didn't know he was your son! I didn't know you'd had a baby until you said it one day! I promise! And then I put it all together tonight and I came to you!" He gets unwisely close, and she breaks his nose. "Augh, Jeanne, stop hitting me!"

Jacob is between them, now, pushing Jeanne and Rory apart. "Rory, you'd better take care of that. Jeanne, shh, I know Rory, he'd never steal a child."

"His Assassin brothers would!" Jeanne spits out. "They'd take a child away before the mother and father could even _name_ it, they'd--"

"Who's the father?" Rory asks, stupidly, because it hadn't even occurred to him that of course there was someone out there with more right to be called Papa.

Jeanne stops, sniffles, and suddenly laughs. "It's Matthew, Rory, who else would it be? Matthew. He wanted a child, and I wanted a child, and I trust him, and he wouldn't expect more of me than making and raising that child. And you look ridiculous, you've got blood everywhere." She's calming down, which is a good sign. Rory smiles hesitantly.

"Listen, um, Patrick sleeps through the night, you know, so we'd better not wake him. But...in the morning...I'm going to tell him, all right? About you being his mother, and about his father. And I'll start teaching him to call me Uncle Rory, and--"

"No," Jeanne shakes her head. "I mean...that all sounds good, except he should call you Papa." She's serious now, but the light is back in her dark brown eyes and she seems calmer. "You didn't know who his parents were, and you've raised him all this time." She reaches out for Rory's hand, bloody from where he's tried to wipe his face, and squeezes his fingers. "Thank you. I...couldn't ask for anyone to love him more than you have. Than you do. I mean it." She sniffles. "But if I find those Assassins who took him, I _will_ kill them."

"I won't stop you," Rory promises.

"Can I...can I come in and look at him?" Jeanne asks shyly.

"You're his mother! Of course you can."


	79. Chapter 79

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, this never got posted when it was supposed to be? So here it is now.

Haytham closes his eyes briefly, gripping the piece of Eden, until he hears a very familiar sound, a bed creaking and thumping against the wall, accompanied by Aveline's delighted moans. Well, he can hear that at home, so he's a little disappointed, to be honest. Here, he can't even join in.

He opens his eyes to find he's sitting on a bed that he's also lying in, pillow clenched over his head. This won't do. He slides the artifact into a pocket and plucks the pillow out of the other Haytham’s hands. "Stop pretending to be asleep."

The younger Haytham protests, "Now I have to hear them! You know how they are, you're obviously myself from further along--" his brow furrows as he looks over his older self's modern clothing--"dressed strangely...."

"I was just visiting Desmond," he lies, "and wanted to see what his style of clothing was like."

"Well?"

"Strange. Although the smallclothes are decadently soft."

The younger Haytham gestures sardonically to the door. "As you no doubt saw when you visited Shay, he and Aveline are preoccupied." He sighs heavily. "Even the uncommon luxury of having two rooms available to rent does not keep me safe from their love."

The older Haytham nearly laughs at the expression of indignant outrage on his own young face. "Oh, let's not lie to ourselves about this. We like hearing it."

"I most certainly do not!" the younger Haytham insists. "Having to listen to them--"

"Makes us very jealous, doesn't it?" Haytham asks knowingly. The younger Haytham scoffs uncertainly. Haytham can't keep from grinning at his younger self's guilty glance towards the other room. He leans closer. "You'll have the opportunity soon to relieve your jealousy."

Another scoff. "You lie. It's inconceivable. That either one would... would... I most certainly do not appreciate this cruel jibe."

"I didn't say you would _take_ it," and he nearly laughs, "but it would save you much heartache and make your life immeasurably more pleasant if you did."

His younger self shakes his head slowly. "Absolutely not. Even to _suggest_ it is the epitome of foolishness. Even if I _wanted_...no matter."

Haytham is having far too much fun winding up his past self. "All I'm saying is that they might not be so averse to the idea."

"And what idea would that be?" the younger Haytham asks coldly.

"You know, and I know you know. I remember what I used to dream when I was you."

The younger Haytham looks offended and doubtful simultaneously. "A man cannot control his dreams," he protests.

"You've had dreams about both of them," Haytham points out. "Very explicit dreams."

His younger self colors. "The mind's natural response to going without."

Haytham shakes his head. "You're not dreaming about anyone else."

"I should hope not!" his younger self says, horrified. "This is probably just because I hear them so frequently." He sighs in relief. "Yes, that's it. And when we part ways in a week and I no longer have to hear it, the dreams will fade."

Haytham almost laughs, again, at the desperate hope on his own face. This had really rattled him, hadn't it? He almost feels pity for his past self, so lonely, so emotionally constipated, so confused. "Well, I won't give spoilers, that's Father's bad habit, not mine."

His younger self scowls. "You needn't. I can manage to live my life quite well on my own, thank you all the same."

"Of course you can," he agrees. "And eventually you'll find that better things happen. _Amazing_ things will happen."

His younger self grabs his sleeve as he begins to feel the tug of his visit ending. "Will I ever be free of these unsettling dreams?"

"Eventually, they won't trouble you," he hedges, and then he's back in what he can't stop thinking of as the future. He shakes his head, still amused, yet saddened at the weight of how many years he'd had to spend lonely and guarded, all because he couldn't admit his emotions to himself.

"Hey." Aveline's gentle hand lifts his face towards hers, and she kisses him tenderly. "You look far away."

"This little device lets you visit yourself," he tells her, taking it from his pocket and pressing it into her hand. "I was just remembering how lonely I used to be. How I kept everyone far away."

"That's all in the past, though," she tells him gently, hugging him and kissing him again for good measure. "You're with us now, you've mended things with Connor, you have Desmond and Grace, Elena and James. Your father knows who you are all the time."

"I know," Haytham says, smiling. "And I love you, I love you all, and I _am_ happy. I just wish I'd let myself be happy earlier."


	80. Happy Birthday, Haytham!

Haytham has had one of his migraines all day, although they're infinitely preferable to a bad attack of the Bleeding Effect, so it's late afternoon before he's fully awake and coherent. He hears the TV on in the living room, and his father's voice, and stops in the hallway to gauge whether the noise level will trigger his headache again.

"Oi, are you watching that show _again_?" Edward is asking at the top of his lungs, unsurprisingly.

"Batman is my _favorite_ superhero," James insists. "He's got a _Batmobile_ , and he's _awesome_ , and his theme song goes like this: na-na na-na na-na na-na, na-na na-na na-na na-na, Batman!"

Edward listens to James's singing, and joins in on the second repetition. "--na-na na-na na-na na-na, _Hat Man_!" Haytham winces, but moves to where he can see the conversation without being noticed, his curiosity piqued.

"You're not doing it right!" James accuses Edward. "It's _Bat_ man, not _Hat_ Man."

"Hat Man is _my_ favorite superhero," Edward retorts.

"Who's Hat Man?" Grace asks, confused.

Edward beams. "That's the question, isn't it? I asked that question for many years, I promise you, and nobody would tell me."

James crosses his scrawny eight-year-old arms over his chest. "I bet he doesn't have any superpowers."

Geraldine looks up from her physics textbook. " _Batman_ doesn't actually have any superpowers," she points out. "Unless being rich is a superpower."

"He's _super_ rich, though," James mutters doubtfully. "He even has a butler."

Edward grins. "Hat Man's super rich, too. Or at least he was. And he had a house full of servants at one point, not that that means anything. _And_ he actually exists, which Batman doesn't."

"Batman became a superhero because his parents were killed in front of him, though," James argues. "Why did _Hat_ Man become a superhero?"

Edward sighs heavily, suddenly somber. "Because his father was killed in front of him. Hundreds of years ago yesterday, actually."

Geraldine tilts her head in sudden understanding, eyes narrowed as she thinks, and Haytham half smiles at the echo of Aveline's features and Aveline's brilliance on her face.

"Batman has a _cape_ ," James mutters. "Capes are _cool_."

"Hat Man has a cape," Edward announces. " _And_ a hat."

"He wouldn't be _Hat_ Man without a hat." Grace rolls her eyes. "You didn't have to point _that_ out, Grandpa."

"Batman is all lonely and pushes people away," Geraldine ventures slowly. "He makes bad relationship decisions and spends most of his time moping in his Batcave. How's Hat Man's personal life?"

Edward chuckles. "Glad you asked! He's head over heels in love with two amazing people, and he has some awesome children, and a wonderful stepdaughter, and some pretty cool grandchildren," and he reaches out to ruffle James's hair as he continues, "and he lives in a big house full of his family and closest friends." He pulls Grace and James into a hug and lowers his voice as he tells them, "And whenever you need to call on him, I made a Hat Signal you can use."

Grace rolls her eyes. "Grandpa. Hat Man wouldn't come for a _Hat Signal_. Even if he _did_ exist."

Edward is fumbling with a flashlight with a piece of paper taped over the end, and finally manages to project a surprisingly recognizable tricorne hat silhouette on the wall. "Grace, I promise you, Hat Man would drop absolutely everything to help you out. He always has."

"What??" Grace demands, as Geraldine chuckles.

"Hat Man, Hat Man," she calls towards the alcove where Haytham's been watching. "I see you there. Come out and join us! Papa is almost finished making your birthday dinner and Maman was cursing at the cake recipe the last I saw."

Haytham comes into the living room, smiling a little uncertainly, as James looks absolutely dumbfounded and Grace glares at Edward. "You didn't _tell_ us Hat Man was _Dad_!"

"He really kinda did, Grace," Geraldine points out. "Weren't you paying attention?"

James runs over and jumps into Haytham's arms, singing, "Na-na na-na na-na na-na, na-na na-na na-na na-na, _Hat Man_!"

Edward pulls out Haytham's old hat from the 1700s--Haytham's not sure where he found the thing--and puts it on Haytham's head, then hugs him tightly, because he's Edward. And then Shay is there, kissing Haytham and telling him that dinner is ready and he didn't let Jacob near it at all, just as promised. Haytham goes to the dining room, peels James off of him after one last hug, and sits between Shay and Aveline, letting out a surprised laugh when he finds that Elena and Altaïr have folded all the napkins into origami tricornes. Edward boasts about his homemade Hat Signal the entire meal, and at one point turns out the lights so everyone can admire it better.

Then there's cake, which is delicious, and Aveline tells him in a whisper her plans for the leftover chocolate ganache, and Haytham turns beet red. Everyone gives him a small present or two, each one obviously chosen with thought and care. Then it's time for birthday hugs, which take up most of an hour, then James wants to hear a firsthand account of Hat Man's superhero adventures.

Afterwards, Haytham goes to get a glass of water, and stands a moment in the darkened hallway, then realizes there's a light shining on the wall down at the end of the hall. Not just a light, but the infamous Hat Signal. It wiggles slightly, as if beckoning him, then the movement repeats impatiently. Amused, he follows the signal into the spare bedroom.

It's been totally redecorated, with satin sheets on the bed and soft lighting. Aveline turns off the flashlight and smiles, and pats the edge of the bed, between her and Shay. There's two large bottles of lubricant on the bedside table, Haytham notices, as well as a few of their favorite..."toys". And a mixing bowl with the leftover chocolate ganache.

Aveline has on a new skimpy, clingy nightgown, and Shay is wearing some extremely revealing shiny underwear as well. He ducks his head in slight embarrassment as he mumbles, "We wanted to wish you a proper happy birthday, sir." Aveline reaches out to take Haytham's hand, and pulls him to the bed. He thinks she's about to whisper birthday wishes in his ear, but she puts her tongue in it instead, and that's even better, as far as Haytham's concerned. He gives himself up totally to their love, and has a happy birthday indeed.


	81. Chapter 81

Shay has the Abstergo agent in his sights--these modern sniper rifles with a miniature spyglass attached are a marvelous invention. But as he blinks to clear his vision and refocus, something sparks in his periphery, movement on a balcony down the block.

He checks his Eagle Vision--blue. An ally, then, and no ominous whispers of danger neither. Curiosity interjects itself into his mission mindset, and he swings the rifle around to get a better look through the scope. This  _ was _ a solo mission. Who, then?

A young man, by his frame and stance. His weapon a mirror of Shay's own, pointed to the same target. Hoodie obscuring his features and a certain bulkiness about the forearm--most likely an Assassin, then. He's bristling with an assortment of firearms that Shay can't help but admire professionally, including a second rifle slung across his back.

Wait, what?

Satisfied at least that the Assassin isn't hunting  _ him _ , Shay turns his attention back to his target. It's all too easy to take down the man with a quick headshot; another gunshot a moment later, from the direction of the other sniper, leaves the enemy's lackey dead beside him.

Now to indulge his curiosity. The Assassin, of course, will have heard Shay's shot; he takes cover and uses his vision again to lock on to the blue figure. Or he would, but the young man's no longer on the balcony. Smart, of course. Nobody wants to be caught loitering near a recent murder. He must have gone in the building--

\--Shay instinctively throws himself to the side, only registering that he'd heard the pop of an air rifle once his eyes fall on the dart that's bounced off the wall next to him.

Who even  _ uses _ those, anymore?

Ducking behind some air-conditioning equipment, Shay risks a quick peek again. There he is, the young man who's as blue as a visitor, jumping from the next building to this one. And unfortunately, he's caught a glimpse of Shay, and is raising his air rifle--it  _ is _ an air rifle!--to take aim.

Shay's own air rifle is on his back, too far to draw in time. His sniper rifle's still where it fell when he dodged the dart. He's got a couple of pistols on his belt and a knife in his boot, but reaching for any of them would most likely provoke a quick defensive response from the Assassin, and Shay can't tell from looking whether the dart bears a fatal poison. He's got his Hidden Blades, of course, but they'll be useless against projectiles.

Besides.  _ Blue _ .

Slowly, slowly, Shay raises his hands, showing them empty. It's a little difficult to appear non-threatening with his height and build, armed with three blades, three firearms, and enough ammo for a week's worth of zombie apocalypse. But he's been taught by the best, and he consciously widens his eyes while relaxing his face. (Aveline says it makes him look like a confused puppy.)

The Assassin is close enough for Shay to get half a glimpse under the hood. Medium skin tone, narrow chin, mouth determined but not cruel. Can't see the nose or eyes, though, not really.

They stare more or less at each other a moment, and Shay imagines the Assassin's sizing him up just as thoroughly, his carefully unremarkable T-shirt and windbreaker, dark trousers that might have been ordered wholesale from Generic Men's Slightly Ill-Fitting Nondescript Pants Warehouse.

The Assassin frowns, sternly, and raises his weapon. Shay can almost  _ see _ the impulse to shoot go from brain to arm to trigger finger.

"Wait!" It's the first thing he can think to say, a poor choice of possible last words.

The Assassin's frown deepens, and his weapon doesn't move, but his half-cocked finger pauses. "Why? You're a Templar." 

Shay curses himself for forgetting his gloves. "Not Abstergo. I'm not your enemy, I swear." Shay flicks to Eagle Vision to double-check; the Assassin is still an aggressively bright blue. Beads of sweat gather on the back of his neck as they stare at each other. What if the lad doesn't believe him?

The Assassin abruptly chuckles and shoulders his rifle. "You're right, you're not."

Shay blinks, disconcerted. "Just like that?"

The Assassin shrugs and pulls his hood back. He can't be older than twenty-five. His dark eyes flash gold and the residual caution melts off his friendly face. "I can tell."

"So can I." Shay's a little pleased to see the Assassin so shocked at that.

"That's...not common in Templars."

"Nor Assassins, not lately."

The young man frowns, considers his words. "I inherited it. You?"

Shay shrugs. "No idea. My father never mentioned it."

"Mine neither, or my mom. But I was in an Animus--" He pauses as Shay flinches. "--and my ancestor could use it. Heh, that guy was a Templar, actually."

Shay casts his eye briefly on the air rifle. "That where you learned to use one of those, too?"

The Assassin nods, smiling briefly. "My ancestor had one. Family heirloom, passed down from Templar to Templar, from his grandfather to his aunt to him."

Shay tries a hesitant smile. "We're not  _ all _ evil, you know."

The Assassin offers his hand, so quickly that Shay blinks in surprise as he shakes it. "Javier Mondragón," the younger man introduces himself.

Shay grins amiably as he shakes Javier's hand. "Shay Cormac," he offers by way of introduction.

\--And there's a Hidden Blade by his throat. Shay sighs, very carefully, and raises his hands again, slowly, in surrender. Are they really  _ still _ holding that grudge?

Javier's expression doesn't quite fit, though. His face is screwed up, his brow furrowed, his eyes hurt, like it's a personal affront. "You're  _ lying _ ." He punctuates it with the edge of the blade. "Who  _ are _ you? Really?"

"I told you. Shay Cormac."

"Shay Cormac is dead. For, like, two hundred years. Why are you using his name?"

"It's not--I'm not--it's  **my** name! Look, it's a very long story, and it involves far more Pieces of Eden than I'd like it to--"

Javier snorts, and Shay can't tell if it's disbelief or agreement.

"But this is really me, Shay Patrick Cormac, born 12 September 1731 in New York, first an Assassin trained by Achilles Davenport, then a Master Templar serving under Haytham Kenway, then unofficially heading the Louisiana Rite until my retirement due to illness. Also, captain of the  _ Morrigan _ , husband of Aveline de Grandpré, father of Philippe, Rory, Jeanne, and Tomas...and Geraldine, and Grace... I mean, I've never had to convince anyone before that I  _ am _ that traitor they've been looking for..."

Javier wavers, brow creasing further. "A...a Piece of Eden...? I mean, you do seem to know a lot about..."

"About myself? Aye, that I do. Bit of the expert, actually. Although I'm surprised to find a modern Assassin who knows who I am; William Miles had no idea at first."

Javier's retracted his blade and stares at the concrete rooftop, almost  _ embarrassed _ looking, truth be told. Somehow he reminds Shay greatly of Geraldine not wanting to own up to "accidentally" purchasing the soundtrack to her favorite cartoon on her father's phone when she'd said she was just playing Minecraft. "I...heard about you in the Animus," Javier mumbles hesitantly.

"Good things, I hope?" Shay forces a weak chuckle. This encounter gets stranger by the second, but it looks like he might live to see the end of it.

"Oh, yeah, good things. I mean, you were like a legend--you--my ancestor really looked up to you. And...he had your rifle. Your air rifle."

"He did?! How'd he get that?"

"From his aunt. Who...uh...inherited it from, um, from you." Javier's voice is almost inaudible. "Her father."

Shay stares blankly at Javier, then points to himself, Javier, and himself again. "You're my  _ descendant _ ? You're  _ my _ descendant?  _ You're _ my descendant!" A slow, silly grin begins to spread across his face.

Javier glances at Shay quickly, then yelps with alarm at being suddenly squeezed in a tight hug. "What the fuck, man?"

Shay knows he looks ridiculous, a heavily armed man squishing another in a huge bear hug, but he can't find it in himself to stop. "C'mon, let me take you home and introduce you to the family!"

"...Okay?"

 


	82. Chapter 82

Javier Mondragón can't entirely believe the past hour of his life. He'd just gone on an ordinary sniper mission, only to find another gunman taking out his primary target. Then, not only was the other gunman a Templar bent on destroying Abstergo, he just happened to be long-dead Assassin traitor Shay Cormac.

Coincidentally, Javier's distant ancestor.

Both of them had made brief, obviously coded phone calls, and Shay had offered Javier a ride to his safehouse to meet "the family", although Javier's a little unsure who that includes, besides Shay's wife, Aveline.

"She'll be so excited," Shay tells Javier as they wind their way through the deserted city center. "She probably knew your ancestor that you were in the Animus--she outlived me by a number of decades, you know, I only ever got to meet a few of our grandchildren." Calmly enough, as if it's normal to die in the early nineteenth century and drive around in the twenty-first with your distant descendant.

Javier's phone rings, and he stifles a groan. Ramón _always_ has to check up on him after a mission, which he appreciates, but.... He picks up the call, uncomfortably conscious of the really really old and probably horribly conservative straight white guy sitting beside him, who he doesn't want to piss off.

Or...disappoint, surprisingly.

"Hey, babe, everything went well, meeting up with family, call you later." Normally he'd talk for an hour, but he's trying to get this out of the way before things get super awkward.

"Family? Your brothers?" Ramón says loudly enough for Shay to hear, and Javier winces.

"Uh, no. More distant family than that. On my mom's side. From...uh, Ireland."

"New York, actually," Shay corrects affably. "My parents came from Ireland."

"Irish, from New York," Javier explains to Ramón. "I ran into him on my mission."

"Awesome, honey!" Ramón is really, _really_ loud. "You tell your Ma's Irish relatives from New York all about your handsome stud of a fiancé who wants to meet them!"

Javier winces and briefly hopes the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Then he thinks back on what he knows of his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, and decides that would be horrifically awful for Shay to see. So he chuckles weakly. "Will do, babe."

Ramón proceeds to make ridiculously over-dramatic kissing noises until Javier shouts into the phone, "I love you too, dumbass!" and ends the call. Only then does he dare look over at the driver's seat. "Sorry about that."

Shay sounds highly amused. "No need to apologize. He sounds like someone I need to meet some day. Fiancé, he said? You two set a date?"

Javier mutters, "Next year," and stares out the window. 

"I want..." Shay begins awkwardly. "I want you to know that, if this fellow loves you to match how loudly he _says_ he loves you, and if he treats you well, then I'm happy for you." He looks thoughtful for a minute, then grins and adds, "And if you have an open bar at the reception I promise not to abuse it."

"Thanks," Javier mumbles. He knows, _knows_ that an Irish Templar from centuries ago can't _possibly_ actually be happy for him. It was _illegal_ back then even to _be_ with another man, after all. And Templars in _this_ time are mostly horribly conservative, so what's one from centuries ago going to be like? He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and stares dully at the grimy streets of a long-abandoned industrial part of town.

Shay parks in a run-down garage and, when they've gotten out of the car with most of their weapons stowed in slightly suspicious-looking duffel bags, checks twice to make sure the doors are all locked.

"Aren't you afraid someone will steal your car?" Javier asks. It's a plain, weatherbeaten black sedan, but all the body panels are the same color and none of the windows have bullet holes, so it does stand out a bit.

Shay shrugs and leads him down a back staircase. "Not really. People have tried, but the car alerts us and it locks itself up if any of us isn't driving it." He waves a hand vaguely. "Rebecca set it up, I don't really understand how it works, but...." They cross a weedy empty lot to the receiving dock of a warehouse, and Shay fumbles for three different keys to open the three locks on the door. "Oh, wait, I almost forgot," he adds, then presses a grubby button. "It's Shay, and I have a guest, if it's permitted."

A woman's voice comes out of a tinny speaker. "He's definitely welcome to improve his understanding." Her accent is French, her voice tinged with laughter, and Javier can't help relaxing just a tiny bit.

Shay grins stupidly at the little speaker for a minute, then points at it and informs Javier, "That's Aveline. She's amazing. She's your ancestor, too, you know." She's also apparently impatient, as she keeps buzzing him in.

"Can we...go in?" Javier asks, puzzled.

"Oh! Aye, right. Welcome to our humble abode." Shay opens the door, revealing a narrow hallway that smells faintly of urine, lit by flickering fluorescent lights. "O' course, that's what I always used to say to welcome people to Aveline's beautiful mansion. This really _is_ humble." He leads Javier up some decrepit concrete steps and through another locked door.

It's a safehouse, and it used to be a warehouse, that's obvious from shrink-wrapped pallets of non-perishable food lining one wall. The main space has been divided up with mismatched, slightly battered folding screens into various living areas--a cozy main room with soft area rugs and a ridiculous number of couches, an office with an assortment of tables and computers, a dining room with several yard sales' worth of different styles of chairs. The original offices and break room have been turned into bedrooms, each with a multicolored sign in childish lettering announcing who sleeps there.

Javier gapes at the signs he can see. _Altaïr_? Surely not...although someone's written "The Mentor!!!" and "Super Awesome!!!" on the sign, and someone put in a tiny smile under the two dots on the I. Someone named Edward has what looks like a pirate ship crewed by dinosaurs on his sign, and whoever wrote "Ratonhnhaké:ton" on another sign needed several tries to get it right. The former employee break room now has a pink paper heart festooned with lace announcing "HAYTHAM + AVELINE + SHAY 4-EVER", a lot of yellow caution tape, and a sign warning of loud noises.

(Who's Haytham?)

A beautiful mixed lady, her hair in long braids down her back, kisses Shay for rather an indecent amount of time while Javier averts his eyes, noticing a Middle Eastern looking man on a couch texting at length on his phone. He looks like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he's missing a finger.

He's _missing_ a fucking _finger_.

(So's the old guy who steals from the donation jars at the supermarket--same finger, even--but this guy looks far more competent and deadly.)

Unsettled, Javier looks around more, noticing a small tan child in a licensed princess dress arguing with her father, a dark-haired white man with a hoity-toity British accent, about whether she should get to watch more cartoons about space guinea pigs, the same show Javier's nieces are obsessed with. The father seems dangerously on the verge of giving in when Aveline calls over her shoulder, "Grace, come over here and meet our important guest."

The girl runs over to Shay and attaches herself to his leg, sitting on his foot. "Papa, it's a _special_ episode, Daddy says it's too much TV but it's _special_!" Javier stares at her in confusion that only deepens as the girl begins poking Shay's knee. "Can I watch more TV, Papa? Please, Papa? Pleeeeeeease?"

"Grace, that's my bad knee!" Shay tells her in a panicky voice, prying her off his leg and scooping her up in his arms. "Look, Grace, this is your great-great-great-...maybe a few more greats...great-nephew, Javier Mondragón." He intones his descendant's name with a quiet reverence and pride that are frankly shocking to Javier. "And Javier, I'd like you to meet my wife, your great-...uh, your ancestor, Aveline de Grandpré." He seems to be attempting a grand flourish in Aveline’s direction with his hands, hampered by the insistent toddler clinging to him.

Aveline shakes Javier's hand, smiling, and tells him, "I'm delighted to meet you, Javier. And of course you've already met our youngest, Grace Kenway."

Kenway? Where did _that_ come from? 

"What luck that Shay should run into you on a mission," Aveline says, then cuts Shay off as soon as he begins to open his mouth. "Shay, darling, beloved husband, don't you _dare_ say you made your own luck. We all know this was pure chance."

Javier feels like he's struggling to catch up. "You're...you're Aveline. The Assassin! From that Helix game Abstergo put out."

Aveline nods serenely. "Guilty as charged." She flashes a brief smile in Shay's direction. "I hope you appreciated the entirely ridiculous job they did of forcing your distant cousin's genetic memories of me into their absurd pro-Templar narrative."

Shay laughs, and the man on the couch speaks up, his gaze never leaving his phone. "Of course, who could ever believe that Aveline would like _Templars_?" His scarred mouth quirks in a sardonic smile. 

Aveline laughs. "Again, guilty as charged--and guilty as _you_ , Altaïr, might I add."

Altaïr (seriously? _Altaïr_?!) inclines his head. " _One_ Templar. Not Templar **s**." He lingers pointedly on the plural. 

Grace keeps tugging at Shay's shirt. "Papa? My show?" 

The British man has been hanging back--Javier glances at him with brief confusion. He'd seemed at first to be Grace's father, and there's a strong resemblance between them, but she's calling Shay "Papa", so... 

Shay follows Javier's gaze, and grins. "C'mon, you," he says as he tugs the man forward. "Javier, I'd like you to meet someone very important to me. Grand Master Haytham Kenway, my partner, and Aveline’s too."

_Partner_?? 

Javier opens his mouth to ask--he's not sure what--but winds up blinking in surprise. 

Today's been a most unexpected day, full of strange occurrences Javier would never have even thought to imagine. Somehow, everything so far has been much more believable than the sight of his _ancestor_ the _Templar_ locking lips passionately with this... this... prim and proper-looking Grand Master. Kenway looks surprised, his eyes flicking warily to Javier, though his lips don't leave Shay's. Aveline embraces them both with a smile, and Grace bangs her little hands on both her fathers' shoulders. "You're _squishing_ me! I want to watch my shooooowwwww!"

Javier catches Altaïr's eye, and the legendary Assassin briefly looks towards the smooching Templars with a sort of tolerant amusement, shrugs, and returns to his phone.


End file.
